The Lost and the Damned
by Koronis
Summary: Veldoran is the leader of the remnants of the warhost of Ulthwe sent to sub-sector Aurelia. Thrust into a conflict that spans both space and time, will he accept an unlikely alliance or walk alone into the darkness that is to come?  AU   Written b4 Retri
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note - I'll be updating this occasionally, at my own pace. Please read and review. By the way, I'm not a Cassern Goto, I know stuff about the universe that I read off Lexicanum. I may take a few liberties here and there, like with Eldar customs (which are largely undocumented), but I remain faithful to the GW canon. Anyway, what inspired me to write this was the fact that I played FO3 with WH40k mods.

Continuity - Following Dawn of War 2's storyline, after the events in Chaos Rising. The Black Legion forces in the Aurelia Subsector are shattered. The Blood Ravens' new Force Commander (Which I shall nickname from here on out, Vanilla Ice) is now Captain of the Fourth Company, as per canon. Gabriel Angelos is declared renegade. Eldar forces are in hiding on Typhon Primaris.

_In the grim darkness of the 41st Millenium, there is only war... And war, war never changes..._

**Prologue**

Veldoran, leader of the broken remnants of the once-mighty warhost of Craftworld Ulthwe, sat in the ruins amongst the verdant Typhon Primaris, with his fellow seers alongside him. It was evening on the jungle planet, and the mossy stone structures that dotted the planet provided perfect vantage and cover for the Eldar forces. Of the thousand warriors that had set out from Ulthwe, only less than half remained. At last count, only four hundred warriors remained, with most of the casualties from the Howling Banshee aspect. Exarch Tyrea, and most of her kin were dead, awaiting transfer into Ulthwe's Infinity Circuit. At least they had the fortune to have their soulstones. Many of the Wraith-constructs that had accompanied them to the Aurelian subsector were destroyed, the soulstones within them shattered beyond all hope of reconstruction, the long-dead Eldar souls they contained sent screaming through the Warp to Slaanesh.

It had been two months since their second defeat in the Aurelian Subsector, engineered by the upstart leader of the Mon-keigh Space Marines. Countless Wraithguard lay in ruin on the frozen, desolate world of Aurelia. Truly enough, the foolish humans had proven to be the doom of Ulthwe, as Idranel had predicted, mere weeks before her own death on the human-controlled Forgeworld of Meridian. For two months, they had wandered from planet to planet in the Aurelian Subsector, finding a way to salvage any advantage, salvage anything of worth from their failed mission, to no avail.

With Idranel dead, it fell to the next-highest-ranking seer to lead, and by virtue of experience and skill, it was undoubtedly Veldoran, who had long past the length of time typically served by seers as Warlocks. He had achieved seniority two hundred years before, but had felt it best that he continue serving as Idranel's majordomo, giving her the benefit of his wealth of experience to complement her raw potential.

"Another thing to hate them for..." he thought, seething with anger. The other Warlocks of the Council of Seers had given him a wide berth ever since the death of his protege. A hundred and fifty years... gone. A hundred and fifty years had he had spent moulding Idranel into one of the premier Farseers of Ulthwe. A hundred and fifty years, laid to waste in but a moment, thanks to the humans...  
>The structure they had taken refuge in used to be a temple, built by the stranded humans in the past to glorify some ancient deity, possibly yet another incarnation of the Ruinous Powers. The humans that used to live here were long gone, probably a victim of their own foolishness one way or another. Still, despite being millenia old, and constructed of native stone without mortar, it was a sturdy structure that had even withstood orbital bombardment by the Space Marines battle barge during the fight for Typhon Primaris in the closing hours of the Tyranid war. The room in which he stood had served as the altar hall for the primitive Mon-keigh that had resided here, with Parthenon-style towering pillars that held up a heavy stone roof. That the pillars were large enough to conceal a Falcon tank was proof enough of the scale of this temple, and was therefore an optimum place for a temporary base while Veldoran and his Seers considered their next move.<p>

The Seer council stood in an almost perfect circle, each warlock radiating power that the average Mon-Keigh psyker could only dream of attaining. Divination runes danced around them, sometimes darting to another warlock and taking up orbits around their new owners, and it was a full fifteen minutes before the ritual was ended. Most shook their heads, having gleaned nothing from the divination ritual, but Veldoran sensed a distinct undercurrent in the divination that had failed to be seen by the other Warlocks. He was about to order a re-cast of the ritual when one of the Rangers stormed in, cameoline cloak in tatters.

"Lord Seer, I would speak with you!" she, for it was clearly a female, yanked off her hood and the helmet beneath it, revealing the bright silver sheen of her irises, framed by a thick mane of brown hair. It was obvious that she had just returned from patrol, even with his mask he could smell the tang of sweat and the musky undertone of Eldar pheromones. Her agitation was palpable, and it was obvious whatever news she had brought was at very least, unpleasant.

"What is it, Ranger?" Veldoran murmured from the shadow of one of the pillars.

"The remnants of the Black Legion are within ten kilometres of our base camp," she handed him a small dataslate, finely-wrought from wraithbone, which showed a map with small, glowing red eight-spoked symbols demarcating the forces of Chaos.  
>"Have they breached our defensive perimeter?" he handed her the slate again, other hand clasping the handle of his witchblade lightly. "Are there any casualties?"<p>

The ranger shook her head, "No, Lord Seer. We were careful not to reveal ourselves. However, the direction of their advance leads them directly to us. "

This was dire indeed. There was a distinct possibility that they had sensed the warp energy from the Seer Council's attempted divination and were on their way to discover its source.

"They are led by a Sorcerer, Lord," the Ranger's jaw was set grimly. "And a host of daemons walks with them. No less than two thousand, all told."  
>Veldoran cursed under his breath. "Too soon. It is far too soon... We must prepare the Closing of the Way."<br>"And sever Ulthwe's only route back to Yrin?" his second in command, a younger Warlock named Tarashe spoke, addressing Typhon by its Eldar name. "It would mean sacrificing what little we achieved in this sector!"

"If we stand and fight, many lives will be lost, in a futile effort to secure what foothold that remains," Veldoran retorted harshly. "And if we fail, the way will be open for the Great Enemy to reach Ulthwe... and possibly other Craftworlds. Do you wish to have your named reviled by our kin till the fulfillment of the Rhana Dandra, or the coming of Ynnead?"

Tarashe fell silent, realizing that he had spoken out of turn.

"I appreciate the Council's role," he softened his tone somewhat. "But the Craftworld's needs comes first. Everything else is secondary, including our own survival."

One by one, the warlocks nodded, and Veldoran knew that there would be no dissent, as long as all of them were reminded of their loved ones still living on Ulthwe. He knew in particular that Tarashe had a bondmate with child, and it had been many moons since he had seen them.

The Closing of the Way was an act rarely performed on a webway gate. Typically, most gates were well hidden, thanks to Eldar camouflage technology. Some, however, had sustained damage that disallowed them from cloaking, and as for Yrin's gate, it was only the foliage that covered the planet that had allowed it to stay hidden thus far. It pained him to see that Yrin would be cut off from the reach of the Craftworld, but the stakes were high should the forces of Chaos find the webway and use it. The last time such a thing had happened, the Tzeentchian sorcerer Ahriman had broken into the Black Library and stole some of its many irreplaceable texts. The ritual could only be performed by a psyker, and as such, he intended to be the one last through the gate, performing it himself while leaving a small window of opportunity to pass through himself.

"Activate the portal," he gestured with a robed arm. "Begin evacuating the Guardians first. We Seers will do what we can to delay them."  
>He reached into the satchel on his waist and pulled out a rune, rarely used, and last used by Farseer Idranel herself during her final battle with the Mon-Keigh. It glowed and thrummed with power, responding to his own psychic resonance. "They shall see a storm, larger and more violent than any they have seen, or are ever likely to see again..."<p>

***

It had been two hundred years since he had donned his ceremonial armour. Resplendent in runic symbols and soulstones, it was awarded to him after a victory over the Mon-keigh on an Exodite world whose name he had not cared to remember. Slowly, deliberately, he slipped it on, feeling the flexible shell underneath the robes, and the metallic click of the chestplate. Immediately, he felt the psychically-sensitive filaments within the armour react to his presence, synchronizing with his thoughts and emotions. Like the more archaic armour of the Farseers, it had two wraithbone wings jutting from its back, psych-reactive stones studding it and allowing finer control over the Warp. Alongside the proud white and black colours of Ulthwe, golden filigree outlined the terrible visage of his helm, the red eye-slits glinting in Typhon's evening light. The witchblade that lay in his scabbard was of the finest adamantine steel, inlaid with near-sentient wraithbone. It had been gifted to him with the armour itself. The master smiths of Ulthwe had spent many, many moons forging it, and it had been some time since its blade had tasted the blood of the Eldar's many enemies. Arbiter-of-Death, he had named it in the Eldar tongue.

The low song of the Howling Banshees filtered through his mind as he walked out of the antechamber of the ruin, focusing and directing his determination. He would not fail this day, whether he lived or died was another matter entirely. Uttering a small prayer to Khaine the Bloody-Handed, he rallied the warhost of Ulthwe the Damned.

In front of him stood the multitude of his warriors, also equipped in the finest panoply of war that Ulthwe could offer. Too many Exarchs had died already, too many. Tyrea of the Howling Banshees, Kaylith of the Warp Spiders, even Nemerian and his best rangers were gone, with only his inexperienced second-in-command, Jaeris, to lead them. The Guardians had long gone through the gate by now, and it fell to the Aspects to hold the line until the ritual of Closing could be completed.

By now, it was certain that the Chaos forces were aware of their location. One of the rangers had been killed while attempting to hide from their soldiers, and they had renewed their march with renewed vigour, intent on catching the Eldar wrong-footed. With the help of the Council, Veldoran had conjured a truly massive Eldritch storm above them, sending tendrils of psyker lightning lancing toward the incoming Chaos force. Untold numbers of heretics and Chaos Marines were annihilated with each blast, but with every loss, more daemons came forth from the Warp to take their place. The ritual of closing was still ten minutes away from completion when battle was joined. At his behest, many of the aspect warriors had departed the battle-zone through the still-functioning webway , whilst the Seer Council and Veldoran's most trusted Exarchs remained, one of whom was Veldoran's former bondmate, Ilrissa. It had been an age since he had called her by that name, and indeed, it was an age since she had ceased to become his bondmate and instead been consumed by her Path, forever forsaking both name and family. Still, some part of her had willed her to stay, and she had said as much. He was itching to order her back through the gate, back to safety, but he knew it would be a slight to her honour as well as to the honour of the Temple of the Howling Banshees to do so. Tarashe, he knew, would be leaving once the Council had completed its task of closing Yrin's gate, and would once again see his bondmate and child. A slight twinge of envy crossed his thoughts, but he pushed it away, knowing that it was for the better. He would be the one to charge the Webway one last time, by himself, and forever seal the gate, as it should be.

Deyond of the Warp Spiders had already led his small group of warriors to harass the Chaos forces in an attempt to both harass and draw off their forces, but for the most part, the enemy had maintained cohesion, and marched inexorably toward the gate. Shuriken cannons, set to autotarget the enemy troops, were cutting down wave after wave of enemies, and yet there were always more enemy bodies to soak up the concentrated fire. On the mossy stone steps of the temple, Veldoran stood watching the battle, Jaeris and Ilrissa by his side. Jaeris had his eye set on his scope, sniping any who strayed too close to the Warlock.

One by one, he could sense the Aspect Warriors falling in battle, their grace and speed proving futile under the overwhelming onslaught.

"It is time," Ilrissa pronounced, drawing her mirror-blades from their sheaths gracefully. Veldoran nodded, motioning for Jaeris to evacuate.

"Then we fight side-by-side once more, my love," Veldoran whispered.

There was a slight hint of a smile on the stern face of the Exarch, perhaps the ghost of her former personality yielding to nostalgia. It was quickly wiped away as she sprinted forward, her eyes glinting with unbridled battle lust. Even as a warrior, she still held the same beauty and grace that Veldoran had fallen for so very long ago.

Battle was joined quickly, and wave after wave of Chaos soldiers fell to the collective blades of the Eldar. Moving almost in unison were Veldoran and Ilrissa, blade-strokes quickly separating body and soul with precision and impossible speed.

"I shall send your souls screaming back to your Dark Gods!" he howled, unleashing a withering bolt of eldritch energy from his fingertips.  
>Striking hard and true, the bolt had annihilated a goodly portion of Chaos Marines, leaving nothing but shreds of metal and bloody chunks of meat in its wake, routing the many heretics that were still engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat with the Eldar warriors.<p>

There was a lull in the fight as their leader strode forward, the Chaos Sorcerer who had survived the purge of the Black Legion forces by the Blood Ravens. Adorned in gold-chased black armour that displayed the foul sigils of Chaos, the Sorcerer was a sight to behold. His force sword was bifurcated and wreathed in Chaos energies, and a bolt pistol hung at his belt, covered in what seemed to be fresh human blood.

"Come forward, Eldar…" the sorcerer's voice was rich with amusement. "And Xenthus the Reviled shall show you true power, power that will forever lie beyond your reach…"

"You are naught but a slave to your own power, Sorcerer!" he replied, brandishing his witchblade with a flourish. He could feel the wretched filth of Chaos infusing the very space near which he stood, gnawing at his sanity. Forcefully, he rebuked it with a jolt of his own aura. At the same time, he dashed forward, swinging his witchblade in a wide arc. The sorcerer met it with his own blade, and sparks flew from the clash of the potent weapons. With speed impossible for any human to match, Veldoran struck again and again, scoring the Xenthus' foul and pitted armour with his blade. With a howl of fury, the Sorcerer unleashed a torrent of telekinetic energy, sending the Warlock flying.

Deftly, he corrected his fall and landed on his feet, dragging to a halt, just fast enough to register the doombolts that the Sorcerer had unleashed upon him. With a raised hand, he formed a telekinetic screen, and deflected the bolts with sheer force of will. They impacted harmlessly into a group of trees, turning them into a mass of smouldering wood.

Around them, the battle had resumed once more, both sides fighting with renewed vigour and determination. Foolishly, several heretics, seeking to win the favour of their Dark Gods, had dashed forward, intent on impaling Veldoran upon their rusted blades, and were promptly torn asunder by Arbiter-of-Death, keenly singing with each blade-stroke upon their bodies.

In his fury, he had not registered the fact that the sorcerer had raised his pistol, intent on dealing the killing blow to the Warlock while he was still engaged with his minions. With a swipe of her power-sword, Ilrissa sliced the accursed weapon in half, but it was too late for the mighty Banshee Exarch, who was impaled upon the sorcerer's blade just as she had saved Veldoran's life. Coughing blood, she fell to the ground, clutching the obviously mortal wound. Within seconds, she was dead, her eyes staring blankly at Veldoran as he looked in horror at her prone form.

"No… No!" he roared, rage and sorrow filling him.

"Was that your woman, Warlock? How romantic… You'll have someone to accompany you when I send your soul to Slaanesh!" Xenthus taunted eagerly. With a flick of his hand, he raised Veldoran into the air, intent on doing the same to Veldoran.

With a howl of monumental rage, he burst out of Xenthus' telekinetic grip and swung his blade once more in an arc with a mighty explosion of psychic energy, disintegrating the Sorcerer and anyone who stood in a significant radius around him, turning them into bloody chunks of flesh and bone on the jungle floor. Screams resounded around him, as those not killed outright were nothing but limbless torsos covered in their own blood, with only seconds left to their mortal lives.

The Warlock fell to one knee, utterly spent, one gauntleted hand braced upon the pommel of his witchblade. With the death of their leader, the forces of Chaos was thrown into disarray, though some aspirants had continued to fight with ferocity. It was several moments before he got to his feet and sounded the general retreat, trudging over to Ilrissa's lifeless body to retrieve her soulstone and that of the other fallen warriors that lay near her.

As he held the glowing red gem, he sighed and clutched it tightly, the helmet concealing what tears he shed. It would not do to have his own warriors perceive his sorrow, nor was there any time to mourn, but such was the fate of all Eldar. It was thus that he laid the stones gently into his satchel and strode forward once more, his head held high and his witchblade at the ready. There would be time to mourn later, now was the time to give the enemy more cause to do so that he did.

***

The fighting retreat cost them little in terms of warriors, and soon it was down to Veldoran and the remainder of the Seers to hold the gate, as the rest had already died or left through the webway, back to Ulthwe.

He had ordered them to go through the gate first, and was about to commit what reserves of energy he had left to closing the portal forever, when a foul Bloodletter shimmered into existence near the thick foliage that hid the Webway from prying eyes.  
>Working quickly, he completed the ritual, sending a last jolt of energy to fuse the circuits within the control mechanism, which allowed him just ten seconds to follow his brethren through.<p>

The daemon charged, knocking him a few meters from the gate, and it was with desperation that he dashed for the portal before he was tackled again by the Daemon. All he remembered before he blacked out was his calculation that his momentum would be enough to carry him safely through the portal…

**Chapter 1**

It had been a week since Lyra had left Vault 101, and in that time, she had discovered a little of what was left in the world.  
>It was on the first day that she had made her way to Megaton, the quaint little town built around an unexploded nuclear warhead. There she had met Lucas Simms, the town sheriff, with whom she became fast friends with, thanks to her speedy work in helping the town disarm the nuclear bomb that had given the town its name. Sadly, even that did not help her find any means to continue the search for her father. The town's information broker was a man by the name of Moriarty, who also owned the town tavern (if one could even call it that), a hard-nosed and greedy old man who had dirt on virtually everyone who had lived in town for more than a month.<p>

The old bastard had licked his lips when she had asked him for any information on her father. Ever the businessman, he demanded that she pay for it. "One way or another," he had said, before running an appreciative hand over her cheek. That had earned him a slap, which oddly left him even more amused than before.

Truth be told, she was a little angry at how her father had left, leaving her in the clutches of the Overseer. It was only thanks to Amata that she had managed to leave and begin a new life outside. In some ways, despite being a dismal ruin, Megaton offered her something that the Vault never had – Freedom. She came and went as she wished, did anything she wanted (short of shooting up Moriarty's Saloon and Moriarity himself), and she even had a house of her own (thanks to Lucas, who was kind enough to reward her for disarming the bomb). Life was pretty good, despite the harshness of living in post-apocalyptia.

Over the past few days, she had spent some time exploring the surrounding area and talking to some of the townsfolk (One somewhat odd woman by the name of Moira stood out – she had asked her to take a look at the nearby ruined supermarket for any supplies), careful to avoid pockets of radiation and water(since it was irradiated enough to cause her Geiger counter to sound). So far, she had managed to avoid direct contact with the raiders(insane, gun-toting people who roamed the wasteland looking for people to rob and/or kill) by staying silent and killing any who got too close with a hunting rifle she had picked up at Moira's store.

The thrill had been immense, especially once when she felt a little adventurous and decided to take on a group of three raiders who had been hiding out in the ruins of an old barn. Like the soldiers she had seen in the historical pictures in the Vault library, she went prone, bracing the old rifle carefully and managed to kill two without gaining noticeable attention. The last one had run to his now-headless partners-in-crime and gotten shot as well, though it was not as clean a headshot as the other two, and he screamed and thrashed about for a while before he actually bled to death(Lucas had laughed when she told him what had happened, and advised her to aim ahead of the target next time.)

Today, the eight day of her exile and subsequent new life, was uneventful so far. A radscorpion or two, some mole-rats (which made for excellent eating once you cooked them), and even an old Protectron robot (which had detected her and demanded that she stop before she blew it's head off). It was about two in the afternoon when a bright flash caught her eye, with the squeal and crackle of electrical discharge. Following the direction of the sound had brought her to a wall of rock and she was about to just turn around and continue her explorations when there was a second flicker of blue light and the same squeal of electrical discharge right next to her, startling her out of her wits. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the blinding flash of blue was gone, and in its place lay something that she had never ever seen before, not even in any of the Vault library's many holotapes.

Clad in a robe of dark cloth with dozens of symbols inscribed onto the edges and a mask of inlaid gold, was a person, a human possibly. Whatever he or she was, one thing was sure, it had seen heavy combat. The material of the robe was torn and seared in some places, and the mask was covered in soot, as well as a bit of soil. Down the metal-ribbed front was the generic impression of a slash, deflected by the metal ribs as well as the armour that lay underneath. Above all, one of its hands held a sword of wondrous make, which seemed to glow and shift in colour as she watched.

"Shit," Lyra cursed in awe. "What in the world is going on here?"

Warily, she crept closer, eyes fixed upon the supine figure before her.

She had made it to within half a metre when the figure raised a gauntleted hand weakly, the sword clattering to the ground. The masked face turned to face her, red eye-slits glinting evilly in the light.

Several seconds elapsed, both of them staring at one another.

Finally, it was the newcomer who spoke. His voice was gravelly and deep, but backed with a strange reverberating and musical quality. "Human... "

Her eyes widened.

"Help… Me…" he managed to say, before his head fell back and the eye-slits darkened.

"Shit," was all that she could say as she dashed forward to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was night-time when Lyra had finished dragging the armoured guy back, throughout the entire affair, he had not said a word, and she had started to worry that he might already be dead. Still, it bothered her just to leave him out in the wasteland like that, dead or alive. If he was dead, it would be the honourable thing to give him a decent burial. If not, it would be best if Doc Church took a look at him, at very least. The old man had the bedside manner of a rusty knife, but he did his job quickly and efficiently, as anyone in Megaton would testify.

The doctor was understandably irritated at having his sleep interrupted, but his look of irritation on his dark-skinned face quickly turned to grim concern as soon as he saw his two visitors.

"Strange clothes he's got," Church noted, helping Lyra lay the unconscious body on the examination table. "If it's even a he, that is."

"I never got the chance to find out," Lyra sighed, her face coated in sweat from the exertion.

Gingerly, Church fiddled with the helmet, and after a few minutes, found the clasps which held the mask in place. With a gentle, pneumatic hiss, the helmet unsealed itself, and Church was able to slide it off easily.

Underneath was a male face that could easily have been mistaken for human, but there were subtle differences, such as the pointed ears, as well as the immaculate slant of his eyebrows and the inhuman pallor. Though Lyra was somewhat unsettled, it did occur to her that he was, in fact, handsome to a degree which she had not thought possible. His breath was shallow, and it was clear that whatever or whoever he was, this person was in need of serious medical attention.

"Who... What... is he?" Lyra whispered, unable to avert her gaze.  
>"I don't think he's human," Church pressed a finger against where he presumed the carotid artery would be, noting the incredible pace of his pulse. "Seems like tachycardia... But, then again... I'm not even sure that it applies to him. He may have a totally different anatomy, for all we know."<br>Church busied himself with the removal of the rest of his apparel, shooing Lyra outside while he did so. It was a few moments before he finally got down to a proper examination, utilising expertly trained hands to probe for fractures or broken bones. So far, he had seen little difference in this guy's skeletal structure from a typical human's, but without a full fledged dissection, it was impossible to tell. There were a few deep gashes on his legs and chest and a bruise on one side of his face, but overall, there was no sign of any significant injury. The bruise itself could have meant a concussion, but with the sheer amount of unknowns, he was unable to accurately tell beyond what he could see.

Bandaging what wounds he could and finishing off with a stimpak dose, he called Lyra in.

"You gave him a stimpak?" she looked at Church incredulously. "I thought you said we didn't know anything about his anatomy!"

"Kid, stimpaks work on any living thing that I've ever worked with. Chickens, Brahmin, mole-rats and dogs. You name it, I've tried it," Church replied huffily.

Making a conscious decision not to ask Church why he had been injecting stimpaks into livestock, she walked around the examination table, eyes gazing intently at her find.

"I've got no idea when he'll wake up, or if he'll even wake," Church folded his arms and sighed. "It might be long, if he's in a coma."

Lyra narrowed her eyes and nodded, reaching for her purse.

"We can settle accounts later, kid," he waved dismissively before taking a seat. "You might wanna tell Simms about him, though."

She nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow, Doc."

***

**Interlude**

_Ilrissa..._

_Veldoran knelt beside his bondmate, cradling her armoured body in his arms. Tears of rage and hatred leaked from his eyes. Every time he closed them, he saw Ilrissa dying before him again, run through by the Sorcerer's foul blade. Every last detail burned into his mind like a brand on bare flesh.  
>Ilrissa...<em>

_He whispered her name brokenly, hoping against hope that she would open her eyes one last time, smile one last time in the way she always did before she had become an exarch. His tears landed on her serene, blood-stained face, washing away some of the blood and grime that had accumulated there._

_It was futile, grieving like that. He knew it long ago, long before he ever walked the Path of the Warrior, or the Seer. To be born Eldar was to know loss, to be reminded of it in every waking moment. It had been so since the Fall, and would never change as long as there was even a single living Eldar. With a wordless sigh, he wiped the tears from his eyes and willed himself to forget, before vanishing into the darkness of his consciousness once more._

***

It was morning, and as planned, Simms had gone down to examine Lyra's "find". He had not been pleased at Lyra for doing what she had did, and had left Doc Church's muttering something about a "new kind of super-mutant" under his breath. Still, he had not done anything drastic like shoot the guy, which Lyra took to be a good sign.

Feeling assured enough to leave for a couple of days, she had set out to pillage Super-Duper Mart, which Moira had marked on her Pip-Boy a few days prior, promising a reward if she found anything useful there, especially food and medicine.

She reached the Mart at about three in the afternoon, noting from her concealed vantage point of several rock formations close together, that the parking-area in front of the Mart itself was infested with Raiders. With a small, makeshift pair of binoculars that she had bartered for (From Moira, again), she observed the crowd.

"Not good," she thought. The most she had ever gone up against was three of those lunatics. So far, she had spotted a total of seven of them, with four armed with automatic weapons, which they had probably scavenged from the surrounding area. Even if she was able to snipe several of them, it would not be inconceivable that some of them would be able to spot her.

She waited, still hidden in the craggy rock formations. Finally, her chance came when she saw one of them walk away from the main group. It was a young man with a Mohawk, covered in crude tattoos, holding an old Pre-War submachine gun.

Breathing in, she braced her bolt-action rifle and chambered a round.  
>She smiled a little as she saw him approach a small ditch, an arc of urine emerging from his undone codpiece. Looking down the ironsights, she placed his head squarely in the center. It was just like shooting radroaches back in the Vault...<p>

"Boom," she whispered and pulled the trigger. The silencer Moira had sold her did its job perfectly, rendering the typically deafening discharge to an averagely loud pop.

Flying straight and true, the bullet collapsed the Raider's face, his lifeless body falling face-first into the urine-soaked ditch with a barely audible thud. Quickly, she raised her binoculars again, watching for any reactions from his compatriots.

Some of them had clearly heard the shot, and were looking around bewilderedly. Thankfully, none of them had seen the kill, and the ditch was deep enough to conceal the body.

"Dumb fucks," she giggled.

It was about twenty minutes when she noticed another Raider separate from the main group, which had started playing cards in the sheltered area next to the Mart.

It was a mean-looking woman this time, also covered in crude tattoos and an obscenely revealing set of clothing. Mouth clamped tightly on a lit cigarette, she was headed toward the same ditch which the first Raider had fallen into, presumably to check on him.

Lyra readied her rifle again, and quickly took a shot just as the Raider had gotten a firm look at her dead comrade.

This time, the bullet tore into her neck and almost completely severed it through. From her binocs, she saw that only a few strands of flesh were left attaching it to her torso.

Soundlessly, the body fell to the ground, rolling down the ditch as well.  
>However, it was clear that this charade could not continue for long. The rest of the raiders had heard the shot, and properly, this time. The lot of them slung their weapons and began to walk out in a measured pace, eyes keen for any sign of movement.<p>

The leader, an absolutely ugly-looking bastard, stood up as well, barking orders to the nearby raiders. Diligently, they fanned out, two by two, with the boss staying behind and looking pissed. One group was headed toward that same ditch, again. It was clear that if she did not take action as precisely as she did before, the game would be up, and her life would be forfeit.

The two new raiders easily spotted the cadavers that had been their comrades, and were looking around frantically, trying to spot whoever had sniped them. One of them looked STRAIGHT at her, and was about to open his mouth to say so when a bullet flew into his mouth and out the back of his head. His body knocked his still-living companion into the ditch as well, which was quickly rectified by yet another bullet into his back. The prone Raider struggled for a while, his screams muffled by blood leaking from his mouth, before laying still, obviously dead.

The boss raider had seen the fountain of blood from his dying underlings, and quickly ran inside the Mart... returning with a group of six more Raiders, all armed to the teeth with automatic weapons.

"... Fuck," Lyra grimaced. It was clear she was now in over her head, and with no way to move till sundown, it was only a matter of time till they found her...

She sighed. It was going to be downright difficult to get out of there alive, if not impossible. She shifted from her firing crouch and sat down cross-legged, beads of perspiration upon her forehead. She swiped at them, and at her blunt-cut bangs, somewhat irritably.

"What do I do?" her mind seemed to repeat inanely. Gritting her teeth, she reached for her binoculars again, searching for something, anything…

"It seems that you are in a bit of trouble, _human_," a voice, gravelly and rich, suddenly reverberated in her head. She looked around, even sneaking a peek out the top of the rocky enclosure that she had chosen… Nothing.

She turned back, chambering another round into her hunting rifle.

_"Stay your hand,"_ she heard the voice again._ "One false step could mean your life. Just __give__ me some time."_

"What the fuck," she whispered, clutching her head. "I've gone completely nuts."

_"Not quite,"_ she heard the voice reply. _"As I said, stay your hand."_

She sat in the crevice, continuing her observations of enemy movement. They were still nowhere near her location, but the search pattern they were employing, while lacking in discipline, would mean that they would eventually find her.

"This is ridiculous," she hissed, and raised her rifle again, scoping out targets.

Before she could do anything further, a few distant shouts caught her attention. Training the scope over in the direction of the shouts, she saw a glint of silver and blue, leaping towards a pair of Raiders. Before she could catch sight of it, the two raiders were four distinct pieces of flesh bleeding on the sandy ground.

Another few shouts, and a flare of electrical discharge. Through her scope, she saw another group of raiders explode into a fine red mist. Her blood ran like ice in her veins at the sight of such brutal efficiency.

As she trained her crosshairs upon the main group, she finally caught sight of what had slaughtered the Raiders.

It was the armoured man she had rescued, with that sword of his. Where before it had been inert and simply shining silver, this time she could see the blade sheathed in a blue glow, and lightning seemed to crackle around it like the crackling of an exposed circuit. His motions were almost too fast for her eyes to catch.

A slash brought one gunman down, transfixing his torso and bisecting him diagonally. A brutal stab, a blinding flash, and another immolated, leaving naught but fine ash there. Some Raiders had foolishly tried to fire, but were quickly dispatched, some killing each other in their panic. Finally, only the leader was left.

Through her sights, she could see the hapless Raider captain, armed with a hammer the size of a large child. His face shifted between unbridled rage and animal fear, contorting in ways she had never expected to ever see on a human face.

Lyra could see the warrior twirl his blade in an elaborate flourish, taunting the Raider.

Mouth open in a rictus of fury, he had charged forward, intent on bludgeoning his opponent, but it was too little, too late. Easily sidestepping the blow, the warrior tripped the Raider and sliced his weapon in half with a single fluid motion. The Raider fell face-first into the ground, dust caking his sweaty face.

Slowly, deliberately, he walked up to the fallen Raider and lifted him up by the neck almost casually.

She caught a flicker of motion to the right, and saw one dying Raider raise his side-arm painfully, intent on striking a mortal blow to the warrior, but a bullet finished him off quickly before he could do any such thing. The warrior looked straight at her for a moment, eye slits glowing red, before turning back to the Raider. The warrior ran him through with his blade and threw him aside, like a child discarding a broken toy.

Sheathing his sword, he turned his red-eyed gaze towards her hiding spot.

_"Well met, human,"_ the voice resounded in her head once more. _"My name… is Veldoran."_

***

It took a while for her to abscond from her hiding place and go down to the remains of the Supermart where the warrior awaited, robes fluttering in the gentle breeze.

"I mean you no harm," the warrior said as she walked up to him, pistol raised. She could tell he was speaking vocally now, not just mind-to-mind. Was he telepathic or something?

"I saw how you killed those Raiders," she replied non-chalantly. "I'm not taking any chances."

"If you saw me kill them," he gestured to the corpses around him. "You would know that there would be no purpose in offering any resistance."

"Point taken," she sighed, holstering the weapon.

"Where am I?" Veldoran asked, the question sounding rather odd, considering his sheer calm and the injuries he had sustained upon his arrival.

"The building behind you is the Super-Duper Mart," she replied tentatively.

"I meant, what is this planet?" he gestured upward with one hand.

"Uh, Earth. Are you an alien or something?" she asked, already suspecting the answer to her question.

"Earth…" he said, as if tasting the word. "Earth…"

"Where humans come from…" she prompted. "Seeing as how you addressed me by my species in the first place."

"This is… Terra?" he took a step closer to her, voice tinged with urgency.  
>"The Human homeworld?"<p>

"Well, I guess…" she replied, somewhat bewildered. "It's also another name for Earth."

"I had heard that Terra was covered in cities and shrines to the God-Emperor of Mankind," he looked around, also looking somewhat bewildered. "I have seen naught but lands blasted by atomics…"

"Who's the God-Emperor?" she narrowed her eyes. "I didn't know we had an Emperor… I mean, there hasn't even been a President for two hundred years."  
>Veldoran paused, arms folded.<p>

"Well, if there's any way I can help…" she shrugged.

"-where is the closest spaceport?" he asked.

"Spaceport?" Lyra frowned. "Like for spaceships? We haven't got anything like that… I mean, humanity's sent up a few satellites and orbital vehicles in the past, but they're all gone now. Spaceships… well, sounds like something out of an old science-fiction movie. They're not invented yet…"

***

Veldoran was silent as he contemplated the theories in his mind. Nothing made sense! Humans had been a spacefaring civilization for millennia now, and this… this human seemed to have no conception of space travel at all. Was it some sort of elaborate trick, thought up by the Imperials to ensnare him? It could not be, considering that he had sensed nothing deceitful in this human female. Perhaps they were survivors off an Imperial colony ship? He had read the minds of his hosts all too many times already, and nothing pointed to anything other than the fact that this might have been Terra after all. The physician was the most helpful, definitely, having intimate knowledge of human physical processes as well as the basic knowledge of human evolution, which left no doubt within his mind whatsoever that humans had indeed evolved on this planet.

The divination runes had told him little, save that the Warp was far calmer than it ever had been in his long life. He could not feel even a touch of lustful corruption that the presence of Slaanesh had permeated the warp with. But still, the touch of Khorne was strong in this place, the barbarian humans were evidence of that, and the brutal touch of their minds spoke of warp tampering, in addition to the humans' natural tendencies for violence.

If Slaanesh was not present, what did this mean?

If this was truly Terra, as she had said, there could only be one answer.

This was in its past.

Before everything, before the eternal war, before the Emperor, before the Imperium…

Veldoran began to laugh. A dry, hacking laugh that belied the incredulity in his mind. It had been an age since he had cause to laugh, and it felt good to do so after so long… despite what he had gotten himself into now. The greatest joke ever played on him by the otherwise cruel and uncaring cosmos.

The human looked at him quizzically, obviously perturbed by his laughter.

The _Rillietann_, their Harlequin brothers and sisters, had long sought this. The long lost portion of the Webway where time flowed backwards. And now, here he stood, millennia before the rise of the Imperium.

"So… what now?" the female, Lyra, asked.  
><em><br>What now_… what now indeed?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 4  
>It was a long walk back to Megaton, after Lyra had the opportunity to load up her backpack with the supplies in the Raider encampment within the Super-Duper Mart building. There were a few Raider hanger-ons, ordered to defend the vital stores in case of theft, but they were quickly dispatched with a few shots from her trusty 10mm pistol.<p>

All the while, Veldoran had remained silent while she did so. He was so quiet that it was easy to forget he was even there, except for the occasional rustle of fabric when he walked.

"So… err… where are you from?" she asked conversationally, as the silence was getting to her. "Mars or something?"

"No," Veldoran replied curtly. "I did not come from within your planetary system."

The conversation died for a moment while held up her binoculars for a quick survey of the horizon. It was almost night-time, which would make it difficult (at best) to travel. As the sun set, she realized there would be no going any further.

Putting down her pack, she also unloaded a decent-sized packet of kindling she had come into the habit of collecting during long journeys. Rummaging through the pack to find her lighter, she realized that she had left it on the table back in Megaton. With a slap to her forehead, she cursed. There was no way to light the damn thing.

"I knew I should've bought the laser pistol," she sighed as she sat down. "I'm sorry, I can't really find anything to light it-"

With a gesture, Veldoran set the twigs ablaze with a jolt of psyker lightning.  
>"- with…" she finished. "Well, that works too."<p>

"We give away our presence," he pronounced with faint disdain. "Should there be any more… Raiders, as you describe them, we would be found easily."

"I know," she replied, before picking up her rifle and binoculars. "I'll take the first watch. Besides, you should rest up, you're still injured."

Veldoran was silent for a moment, as he considered her words.

"As you wish," he said finally. With well-trained hands, he deftly unsealed his helmet and set it aside. In the flickering light of the fire, she could see that his eyes were a deep violet. His gaze was uncomfortably piercing, as if he could look into her soul.

"That is not far from the truth," he said, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

"What?" she looked quizzically at him. As far as she knew, she had not said a word to him after declaring her intention to take first watch.

"Your mind is open to me, human," he tapped his forehead. "Your thoughts are wild, undisciplined."

She blinked, not really knowing what to say.

"You are not like most humans I have met outside of battle," he said, staring intently at the flames. "They are typically arrogant and mistrustful of those outside of their species."

He chuckled harshly, realizing the irony of his statement. Undoubtedly, most humans would have said the same of the Eldar.

"I guess," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "Humans are afraid of the unknown."

"Perhaps," he conceded the point. Most of the younger races he had met, both in and out of the battlefield, did share a similar worldview.

"You haven't answered my question yet, anyways," she smiled, tossing another twig onto the fire.

"I am Veldoran, Warlock of the Eldar, of Craftworld Ulthwe," he replied simply, before realizing she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Okay…" she nodded politely. "Forgive me if I have no idea what you are talking about."

"It is hard to condense millennia of history into words, human," Veldoran affixed her with a stare. "It is a long and painful tale, some parts of which I am loathe to tell."

Still, he told her a little of what he had learnt so very long ago, when his entire world was merely a crèche. There were a few times when she interrupted him for clarification, but otherwise, she was silent and respectful of his words. For a moment, he felt as if he was instructing one of his protégés back on Ulthwe.

It felt odd to address this human as an equal. Mere days ago he had spent his entire life based on learning how to better kill them, and today, he sat before a human, as an equal, indebted to her show of unmitigated kindness. She clearly had no reason to help him, other than from the goodness of her heart. She had asked for no boon, no reward, and treated him with the same respect as any member of his own species. Was this what humanity used to be, in the past? What had gone so wrong as to pit them against every other race in the galaxy?

"So, you're from a dying race…" she said, a flicker of pity in her words and thoughts.

Veldoran nodded. It was much easier to communicate with this human, whose thoughts were as straightforward and honest as could be. When she thought of something, she voiced it without hesitation, as a youngster would. It was refreshing, after all the shadow-play and trickery he had come to expect from humanity.

"Well, since you shared your story, I guess I should tell you mine as well," she smiled somewhat impishly.

In the beginning, she spoke of a Great War between two nations, of two differing ideologies, where there was a brief but massive exchange of atomic weapons. She was one of the descendants of several human populations which had retreated into Vaults, underground shelters which had self-contained environments and supplies long enough to last for several hundred years.

It did not surprise him that humanity, in its lust for power and resources had not been above destroying each other for it. It was a sorrowful notion that even in ages past, there had been only war, and that it would continue even in the distant millennia from whence he came.

The Eldar had long known about atomics, and discarded it for fear of damaging the planets they lived on, in favour of other weapons and energy sources. It seemed that they were entirely correct in their predictions, considering the sheer amount of harm done to the living things on this planet. Mutation and radiation poisoning was rampant, and the ecological damage would take centuries, perhaps even millennia to repair. But what amazed him was the fact that they had managed to pick up the pieces even in such a desolate and hostile environment.

Beyond that was the lingering taint of Chaos upon the land. The Raiders, as they had named themselves, were evidence of this. He had seen the tattoos upon their flesh, some bearing crude and ineffective symbols of Chaos, not enough to sicken those who looked at them, but still bearing meaning nonetheless. Like brands upon animals they seemed to be. It did not surprise him in the least that all attempts to reason or to negotiate with the Raiders had proved futile. There was no negotiation with the followers of the Great Enemy.

When she had finished with the background history, she told him of her father, and how she had escaped from the Vault when he had absconded in pursuit of some unknown task. Though it was a sorrowful tale, she seemed none the worse for wear, and even seemed to be energized by the thought of adventure.

He chuckled inwardly at her naïveté. Adventure was the province of the young and the foolish. From now unto forever, his life would be dedicated to his duties as a protector of his Craftworld.

He had to return, one way or another.

"When daylight breaks, I will need your help to return to the site where you found me," he said, after a moment of respite from their conversation.

She nodded and smiled impishly again. "I'll help you if it'll stop you from thinking us humans are all a bunch of jerks."

He did not understand the last word in her sentence, but took it to be a pejorative term. "My thanks, human."

"And call me Lyra, please. I'd like not to be reminded of my species every time we talk," she joked.

A rare smile crossed Veldoran's face. "As you wish."

As he lay upon the ground, using her pack as an impromptu pillow, he caught a flicker of concealed attraction from her as she watched him.

"Be mindful of your thoughts," he whispered mentally, certain that she could hear.

Startled, she blushed and turned away in embarrassment, suddenly intent on watching the horizon for movement.

It was thus that he allowed himself to rest. If the fates would allow it, he would return once more to Ulthwe, and begin his long vigil once again.

***

It was afternoon when they finally made it back to Megaton. Veldoran was greeted with hostile stares from most of the populace, suspicious of his arrival as well as his strange manner of dress. Doc Church and Sheriff Simms had kept quiet about his other-worldly origins, much to his relief. The presence of the atomic weapon in the town unnerved him, but for the most part, Megaton was as safe as safe could be.

For the most part, Lyra's status as a honorary resident of Megaton had spared him the worst of the questions and hostility that most strangers were greeted with upon entering the town, but the aura of suspicion clouding each and every one of them was palpable, along with the other less wholesome thoughts, particularly that of the former Raider Jericho, who felt that Lyra was "one fine piece of ass" and would kill half of Paradise Falls just to get a chance to "tap that".

After heading to the provision shop (which was run by a strange young human female by the name of Moira) to barter for additional supplies, they had set off once again, this time back to the site where she had first found him.

It was not too difficult to find. The aperture of the Webway Gate was obvious enough, despite being camouflaged as rock, which meant that its holo-field was still operational. It was a good enough sign. Lyra watched him walk toward the gate carefully, mindful of any surprises that the alien technology might have in store for her.

He touched one of the bulges on the aperture's stony surface, which he knew to be the activation gem, and immediately the camouflage field deactivated, like oil sliding off the gate's shiny obsidian surface. For some reason, however, the event horizon refused to materialize. He stroked the activation gem again, also to no avail. He tried a jolt of psyker electricity, but the wraithbone merely crackled for a moment, the gems glowing brightly then dimming as the energy dissipated.

Swearing under his breath, he stroked the camouflage field's activation gem, before turning back to Lyra. "The gate… it is not working."

"What's wrong with it?" she asked, stepping up to the graceful arc of the aperture.

"I am not sure," he replied, his frustration palpable as he tried to activate the gate again to no avail. "Its energy reservoir seems enough to run its camouflage field. Perhaps it requires recharging, or an external power source…"

"Well, Moira had some fission batteries, the last time I looked," she pointed out helpfully.

"There would be no way to interface it with the gate," Veldoran replied.

"Maybe we could coil wiring around the structure-" she was cut off by his irritated reply.

"A webway gate is not an electromagnet!" he growled, before regaining his composure.

"Well, sorry," she shrugged. "Just trying to help."

He sighed. "If… the webway gate is non-functional, it would mean that I would have to remain here for the rest of my life."

"There must be some way to fix it, I mean, someone with the relevant technological knowhow might be able to jury-rig an additional power source for the gate," Lyra sat down on a smooth rock, pondering.

"My people have lost the capability to build new gates, and only barely know how to repair one. And I am no Bonesinger," Veldoran folded his arms. "There is little that either of us can do at the moment."

"I'm sorry," she stood up and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He jerked slightly, unused to the gesture, but accepted it nonetheless and forced himself to relax.

"Well then, since I am currently stranded on this planet, I find myself in need of a place to stay," Veldoran tried his best to submerge his anguish, and succeeded for the most part. "Might I impose on you, for the moment?"

"Okay," she shrugged, before a naughty glint came to her eyes. "But I'll need your help with something…"

***  
>It was a simple enough matter to find out what Moriarty knew about her father with a mind-reader by her side. All of his dirty little secrets, were in a moment, laid bare for them to see, as Veldoran carefully scryed his mind from the safety of her abode.<p>

"Tell me everything!" she laughed, rubbing her hands with glee. Veldoran obliged her with amusement, spilling everything he learnt with unvarnished detail, such as his lack of sexual interest in the town bicycle (Nova, Moriarty's best refreshment of all) due to his homosexual inclinations, as well as his hobby of urinating (and sometimes masturbating) into the still he used to concoct the vile brews that he served in the saloon.

After fifteen thoroughly disgusting and cringe-inducing minutes, Veldoran found what they had been looking for.

"Galaxy News Radio," he pronounced, his lack of familiarity with the term showing in his pronunciation. "I am not sure what to make of it, but this human, Moriarity, appends the name of your father to these three words."

Lyra affixed him with a quizzical stare. "He's gone to the radio station? Why?"

"He knows nothing beyond that," Veldoran got up from his crosslegged position, brushing himself off. "And by extension, neither do we."

"Well, it's a start," she set her jaw determinedly. "I know where to go now. And maybe listening to some of the radio broadcasts wouldn't hurt either."

Veldoran nodded, before a jolt of danger-sense rolled down his spine. In seeming empathy, the rune-stones within his satchel began to glow and tremble in their slots. With a flick of a finger, he released them from the bag, examining the symbols as they arranged themselves. For some reason, the rune of Consequence and the rune of Hostility were prominent in their positioning, their blue glow brighter than the rest.

"What's that?" Lyra asked, eyes wide with wonderment.

"They are rune-stones, human," he fell back into his old mode of addressing her, his words taut with grimness. "They enable me to foretell the future to a certain extent by bringing my attention to the more prominent threads of fate and consequence. The fact that they are summoned of their own volition can only point to the severity and immediacy of a critical moment in time."

She fell silent, unsure of what to say.

"We are in danger, Lyra, grave danger. And if I read the runes correctly, so are the people of this settlement," he swiped the rune of consequence from its orbit, feeding it with additional eldritch energy to heighten its accuracy. It immediately paired up with the corresponding rune for humanity, which had been dark before but lit up spectacularly on contact with the rune of consequence. "I fear… that this may have been your doing, as well."

Another moment passed, and the rune that symbolized Chaos added itself to the mix, its red glow flaring prominently. Finally, the runes stopped their dance and clattered to the floor.

As he replaced them within the satchel, the wail of Megaton's alarm siren sounded, and even inside the house, they could hear the sound of the metal doors of Megaton shutting. With a final resounding thump, the doors completed cycling shut, sealing off Megaton from the wasteland.

***

Outside, the entire town was abuzz with activity, with residents hurrying for their homes and guards rushing to man their posts on the high metal walls. It was relatively easy to find Lucas Simms in the mess, standing outside his house with his combat shotgun out. His face was stern, and the sweat on his face made it seem like it was carved out of treated mahogany.

"What's going on?" Lyra shouted over the din of the sirens.

"We got a Raider attack force incoming," he shouted back, motioning for them to follow. "Come on, we need anyone who can carry a gun on the walls now!"

At the base of one of the watchtowers, a rope and a large circular metal plate awaited, and he gestured for them to place their feet on top of the plate and take hold of the rope.

"Hold on tight!" he said, before giving the thumbs up sign to the guard above, who worked the winch and pulled them up. In mere seconds, they reached the top. The makeshift battlements provided excellent cover from fire, and provided them with an excellent view of the surrounding wasteland.

It was only then that everything started to fall into place.

"This is no raid," Sheriff Simms growled.

"It is a full scale assault," Veldoran murmured.

Through the slit-windows of the battlements they could see an army of Raiders, far larger than anything that had ever been seen in the Capital Wasteland. There were hundreds of them, all wearing makeshift armour and brandishing a ghastly mix of firearms and makeshift melee weapons, seething with unbridled bloodlust...


	4. Chapter 4

_Meanwhile…_

Tarashe had never attempted access to the Harlequin Enclave. For the most part, the Harlequins were different from the rest of the Eldar that inhabited the great Craftworld. With quicksilver personalities and unpredictable tempers, they were, at best, difficult to deal with, and and worst, unknowable. Still, in this time of great need, it was the only chance he had.

The enclave was a lavishly decorated affair, different from the somber beauty of the crystalline halls of the rest of Ulthwe. Tasselled masks of all sorts hanged from the walls, bejeweled with gems from all over the galaxy. In particular, there seemed to be a mask crafted entirely out of carnelian that happened to catch his eye, and depicted the face of a laughing human.

As he looked at it, he realized the mask shifted in hue and perspectives, sometimes changing moods from happy to sad, to angry, or to emotions that he had not ever experienced. Looking around wood-panelled main hall, he also realized that there were three Harlequins standing perfectly still, posing as statues in incredible poses that would have taken immense amounts of effort and strength to get into, much less stay still in.

There was a moment of awkward silence as he stared at them through the crimson slits of his helm, knowing that they watched him just as he watched them.

"_Rillietann_," he began cautiously. "I would seek your aid."

Gracefully, they uncoiled themselves from their poses and stood on two feet once again, favouring him with toothy smiles on their holographic masks. "Warlock Tarashe, of the Council of Seers… You are welcome in our abode as kin and ally…"

That had been the formal greeting that was exchanged with every meeting between the Craftworld Eldar and the Harlequins.

"It is an honour and a privilege to stand in your abode," he replied formally. "I am, as announced, Tarashe of the Seer Council."

"Such stiffness in your words," the Harlequin with the most intricate mask spoke directly to him in a sing-song voice. "A pity you are not Rillietann… I would have much to teach you about wordplay…"

"I would seek aid from you," he repeated awkwardly, as she strode quickly and gracefully toward him. "It is a matter of the gravest importance, one that only your expertise may resolve."

She came to a stop half a metre before him, her mask changing from red and blue to a clean and shiny white, its mouth and eyes mere slits. "So you come to discuss business… Very well, Tarashe Warlock."

Gesturing to the other two Harlequins in a manner of dismissal, she said. "Continue your exercises… I will return soon."

The two obeyed silently, resuming the poses with no perceivable effort.  
>"What is the purpose of that?" he whispered to her, as they proceeded deeper within the curtained sanctum of the enclave.<p>

"To train in the way of the Harlequin, grace must be of the highest priority, both with motion and without," was all she said as she brushed aside gossamer veils that protected the privacy of the inner sanctum.

Within the dimly lit inner sanctum was a broad stage of intermingled wood and crystal, upon which dozens of Harlequins danced. It was the ballad of the Fall of the Eldar, with the role of Slaanesh being played by none other than that of the troup's Solitaire. The horrifically grotesque visage of the Solitaire's holomask made him vaguely sick, but it would have been nothing compared to what he would have suffered had he been the one dancing the role of Slaanesh himself.

As he entered, every mask turned to look in his direction, despite the fact that each Harlequin was still locked in the throes of the dance. The look of sanguine satisfaction upon the Solitaire's Slaanesh mask disappeared into neutrality, and the mask itself turned from red and silver to a shiny black.

"You are fortunate, Tarashe Warlock, to watch the performance of the _Arebennian_on Ulthwe," a sinuous female Harlequin disengaged herself from the dance with a running jump, landing gracefully before him mere inches away, her mask holding the visage of Cegorach, the Laughing God. The Harlequin accompanying him took her place with equal grace and speed, her mask resolving into that of the Laughing God as well. "It is something many never have the chance to see."

Tarashe thought otherwise, but felt it prudent to keep silent instead.

"I am _Athair_of this Masque, Kin from Ulthwe. You may address your concerns to me," she continued, the same toothy smile on her mask as the others had. "Though it is odd that Veldoran has not come instead, and in his mantle his executor treads."

"Veldoran failed to return with the rest of the expedition force to Yrin, Mistress Harlequin," he tried his best to repress his irritation at her wordplay. "I believe him to be lost somewhere in the Webway."

"Would it not be more logical to say," she replied thoughtfully. "That he never did set foot in the Webway?"

"No," he pronounced firmly. "I could feel his presence within the Webway for but a moment, before the gate to Yrin was shut. I wish to find him with your help, Mistress Harlequin."

The Avatar studied him for a moment, the mask changing from toothy smile to a comically tear-filled face, and then to an expression of utmost dread, before returning back to the toothy smile. The sight unnerved him immensely, but he waited patiently for her response, mindful of what was at stake.

It seemed like an eternity before she spoke again, but it was with a nod that she replied, "A small force of Troupers will I place in your care. It is sadly all I can spare."

"I thank you, Mistress Harlequin," he inclined his head respectfully. The Avatar of the Masque bowed with languid grace, retaking her place among the dancers.

Out of the gloom of the sanctum, a Mime and seven Troupers emerged, clad in the lightweight and almost undiscernable armour of the Harlequins, bearing slender power-swords which lay dormant within their intricately decorated scabbards. Among them was the Harlequin who had escorted him in, and it was her that spoke once again.

"I am At'lia, and we are at your command, Seer of Ulthwe," she bowed deeply, almost comically. The rest of the Harlequins followed suit with gusto. It was also worthy of note that they did so balancing deftly on the tip of one toe.

"Come with me," he said with grim determination in his voice. "We have much work to do."

_Back in Megaton…_

"They're not attacking," Lyra had spent the past hour observing the Raiders from the safety of their watchtower, her keen eyes spotting potential officer-level targets through her binoculars. Veldoran, for one had been silent for the most part, casting his runes again and again, searching for anything that might point him to the right course of action. It was nigh impossible for him to sneak out now, considering the lockdown that had been enforced by the city's de-facto leader, even if he had the ability to sneak out past the Raider blockade.

"I think they're laying siege," Simms had doffed his leather duster for a more durable set of combat armour, and had left his trademark wide-brimmed hat in his house where his son Harden waited. "Starve us of food and pick over what's left afterwards."

"No," Veldoran murmured. "They are merely waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I will not pretend to understand the followers of Chaos, but it is clear in any situation on any field of battle, you engage the enemy only when it is most advantageous to you."

Simms gave him the same look he did when he watched Veldoran consult his runestones for the first time, but said nothing.

"There are several options, and none of them will be to your liking," he began, joining her at her vantage point. "We can force battle now, or wait until they strike. With their temperament, it will be impossible for the leaders of this force to keep control if you fire upon them."

"It'll probably be nightfall," Simms growled. "They'll want to come in under the cover of darkness, where it'll be hard for us to aim, and tear down the gate with a missile launcher or explosives."

"I would have to concur with the human leader," Veldoran turned around, and began to pace back and forth. "They have little advantage to gain in the daylight. It would be easier to lay siege to this settlement under the cover of darkness."

"So what are you saying? We open fire now and take our chances? Isn't it better to come up with a better plan than to goad them into fighting us now?" she said incredulously, brushing a few wispy strands of hair out of her face.

Both Simms and Veldoran turned to look at her, somewhat startled by her outburst.

She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know there isn't much of a choice to be made, here."  
>"For what it's worth," Simms placed a callused hand on her shoulder. "I'm glad you're here."<p>

She smiled. Despite everything, Simms always had the time for a word of encouragement. There was little doubt in her mind that if Simms had not been Sheriff, Megaton would never have been able to last this long.

Veldoran, as was his custom, watched them silently from the side, his thoughts moving faster than any human's, calculating possibilities and decisions. He withdrew the rune of the Storm. Zar, as it was named in the Eldar tongue. It glowed briefly in his hand as it reacted to his energies.

There would be many dangers to utilizing it, the most salient of which was the fact that it would broadcast his presence to any who could read warp energies. It was also unknown if he could keep control over an Eldritch storm for a long enough period of time, and unclear if he would be able to focus the energies in an appropriate area well enough to destroy the majority of their forces.

He sighed. There were so many variables, so many possible consequences that came with the use of such power. Such was the plight of every Seer, the weight of many resting on the decisions of the few.

He withdrew his runes again, sitting cross-legged upon the rusted metal floor of the watchtower, and cast the runes one final time, in the hopes that he would finally find the right strand of fate to follow.

Though Veldoran sat within the confines of the watchtower, his mind was free, roaming both space and time in search of answers. The pulse and thrum of human life-sparks were bright within the city, whilst the ones outside were tainted with the wretched filth of Chaos. He could feel their bloodlust washing over him as he tasted their minds. It was easy enough to discern the raw patterns of thought that these barbarians favoured.

There were three officers in the collected Raider force. One was a bearded man by the name of Bloody Joe, who got his name from his pastime of drinking the blood of his victims straight from their veins.

The second was a rabid warrior by the name of Cragg, named for his ruined features. He was a deadly brute with a long history of murders – "Thirty-seven and still counting", as Veldoran could read from his monomaniacal mind.

The last one was a female Raider by the name of Helga, who seemed to be the most feared despite her gender. A hulking monster of a woman, she bore a massive hammer, and was guarded by two fiercely loyal Raiders, each armed with an assault rifle and clad in protective armour. She seemed to be the de-facto leader, as the other two deferred leadership decisions to her.

Apparently, the entire affair was not orchestrated by the Raiders  
>themselves, he realized as he riffled through Helga's mind. At first glance, he had thought that the attack on Megaton was an act of revenge by the Raiders for the sacking of their stronghold at the Mart, but he was wrong beyond words. Within the Raider captain's cunning mind lay the memory of a contract, brought to her by a man she only knew as Mr. Burke. The psyk imprint of his face was easy to remember. Sharp cheekbones and a well-fed face, his eyes covered by some form of human eye-protectors. Filing the memory away for further use, he dug deeper, delving deeper into the currents of fate, but to no avail. The runes pointed him back in the direction of Lyra, as if she was the focal point of this entire event.<p>

He opened his eyes and looked at Lyra questioningly. Something about her was special, not just in her above-average abilities, but the fact that the skein of fate was twisted around the thread of her life. If the casting of his runes was correct, her life was destined for greatness. A sole gleaming strand of light in a sea of inexorable darkness.

"Lyra, I require your counsel," he began, motioning for her to sit in front of him, which she did quickly.

"What's up?" she asked.

He looked at her quizzically, not understanding her words.

"I mean… how can I help?" she corrected herself quickly.

"I have seen into the minds of our enemies, and I require your aid in making sense of it all," he began, drawing on the warp once again. "You will need to open your mind to me, so I can show you what I have learnt."

"You mean, project your thoughts into my mind?" she asked, somewhat apprehensively.

"Yes," he said simply, before raising a gauntleted hand, corposant slithering across the metal-clad fingertips as he channeled the Warp. "We must be quick, Lyra."

For a moment, the world lurched around her and changed colours. Faces and voices intruded upon her conscious mind unbidden, and finally coalesced into figures she could see and recognize. The face of the human named Burke swam into her mind's eye, clear as crystal.

"I've… seen him before, in Moriarty's Saloon…" she murmured quietly, almost as if she was in the throes of a dream. "He seemed… shady… evil… There was something about him that creeped me out."

"He is responsible for hiring these Raiders," Veldoran said. "Do you know if he is still within the city?"

"No, he left long ago," she replied, squinting eyes that did not perceive the waking world. "When I started living in Megaton proper…"

"Is there anything else you can remember?" he asked, focusing on her memories now, using his talents to increase the clarity of her thoughts. "Anything about this human that might help us with this battle?"

A blur of images, the look of irritation on Burke's face the day he left.

"Nothing," she frowned, shaking her head. "I can't remember anything."  
>He sighed and ended the ritual, the tendrils of psyker energy that were arcing around his fingertips flickering out of existence as he did so.<p>

Simms had watched them both closely, and it was only now that he looked away, frowning darkly and muttering to himself. He ignored the man. Well-intentioned as he was, he was still as ignorant as most other humans he had encountered.

"Burke's the one who's responsible for this," Lyra turned around to look at him. "Veldoran was reading the minds of the Raider leaders, and Burke promised them a load of caps if they took us all out."

Simms looked skeptical. "Say I believe you for now. How does this help us with the current situation of Raiders beatin' down our front door?"

The old sheriff did have a point, Veldoran admitted. Such knowledge would only be useful in the future, should anyone feel the need to pursue the matter. The fact that they might not survive to do so put things in clear perspective.

"Hold on," Lyra scratched chin as she thought. "If you could find the Raider leaders with your mind, could you point them out to me?"

"Of course!" Veldoran did so with the aid of the integrated visual-enhancement electronics in his helm. It was easy enough to find them with the advantage of elevation, and such a view would be especially useful for one of Lyra's skills.

As she raised her rifle, another prickle of danger sense rippled down his spine. The runes that lay in his satchel awoke once again, beginning their tangled orbit around him.

"Hold first," he said, focusing his mind once again.

As he did so, he experienced the full euphoric feel of connection with a strand of fate, the feel of true interface with the skein of fate that had been out of his reach since Idranel's death.

_True Farsight._

As he fell deeper into the trance, psyker energy flickered about his armour, sometimes arcing out and touching Lyra and Simms. The chilling shock of pure warp energy made their hair stand on end, and Veldoran's psychically-sensitive witchblade hummed and clattered in its sheath.

As the vision reached its zenith, Veldoran grasped the thread of fate and sealed the memory of it into the confines of his disciplined mind, much as the Seer Council would, when dealing with a more convoluted pathway of fate.

Revitalized for the first time in months, he stood and strode to one of the slit-windows of the watchtower. As he did so, Lyra saw an entire battalion of warriors appear in front of the gates of Megaton, clad in armour similar to that of Veldoran's. They fired odd weapons at the rocks which the Raiders took cover in.

"Human," he gestured to Simms. "Tell your men to open fire upon the Raiders."

"W-what are those things down there?" the old man's voice was tremulous and alarmed.

"Ghosts of mist and madness," Veldoran answered. "They are but illusions, but the illusions will hold their attention for longer if the occasional shot is real."

Simms nodded, before he strode out along the adjoining wall and ordered the guards to fire.

The Raiders, alarmed at the sudden appearance of the warriors at Megaton's gates, turned their weapons against the illusions. The guards kept up their fire, killing dozens of exposed Raiders before they could take cover. Despite the confusion, Lyra had managed to spot the Raider captain Helga, who stood at side of an outcropping of rock, bellowing orders to her underlings in utter futility, as bloodlust and cowardice filled their minds.

It was in this moment that Lyra felt the world slow down, as if the world beyond the sights of her rifle did not matter any more. She took aim and fired, watching with disinterest as the bullet sped from the barrel and flew straight into the Raider captain's forehead.

A small red hole and an expression of surprise marked Helga's face as she fell headlong into the dust, her underlings scattering as she died. The magazine had nine bullets left, and for those nine bullets, nine lives were bought, each shot taking exactly one second to aim, fire and reload.

_"Strike without fear,"_Veldoran intoned, his gaze lingering on Lyra and then over to the guards. The runes danced almost happily around him, glowing and pulsing as Veldoran drew deeply upon the Warp.

Lyra reloaded quickly without looking, this time ending the life of the Raider known as Cragg. The Raider had gone insane with battle fury, and was even now turning upon his fellow raiders in sheer unadulterated bloodlust. His machete was a sticky mess of red that mirrored the crimson of his bloodshot eyes. Mouth frothing like a deranged animal, he slashed at his own underlings, who had taken to firing at him in an attempt to stop his berserker rage. Despite the many bullets that riddled his body, he fought on, killing more and more of his underlings until yet another bullet from Lyra's trusty rifle impacted into his cranium and ended his miserable existence.

Bloody Joe had ordered a retreat of his own Raider detachment, leaving the other two groups to collectively spasm and die in the withering fire of the illusionary warriors and the guards of Megaton. It was from that day onward that Raiders would avoid the general area of Megaton like the plague, fearful that the "Angels" (as they had dubbed the illusory warriors) would return and finish them off for good.

As the fighting died down, a great cry issued forth from the ranks of the guards of Megaton, routing the remainder of the Raiders as they bore a glimpse of a magnificently armoured warrior at the front of the "Angels", his mighty sword crackling with unknown energies...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 8

As the hubbub of battle died down, Lyra regained some measure of her own will. She blinked once, twice, somewhat confused. "W-what's going on?"

Stumbling backwards, she felt a tremendous sense of weariness descending upon her, as well as the greatest migraine she had ever been afflicted with. There was a feeling of wetness upon her nose and mouth which she tried to wipe away. As she looked at her hand, she saw what it was.

Fresh blood.

She turned to look at Veldoran, who stared at her with concern.

"I'm not… feeling too good…" was all she managed to say before she passed out.

"What the hell?" Simms looked upon Lyra's bloodied countenance in horror. "What's happened to her?"

"A reaction to my powers, I believe," Veldoran's tone was grave, and somewhat apologetic. " I was guiding the shots of those who manned the walls. Apparently, it was too much for her mind to take."

Barking orders at the nearby guards to commence a clean-up operation and to tally the wounded (Of which there were none except for Lyra, amazingly.), the old sheriff carried the young vault-dweller down himself, making for Doctor Church's clinic at a respectable clip. Veldoran followed as well, silent as always.

As Simms laid her upon the treatment table, Church sighed. "I was wondering when this would happen. Is this a head injury?"

"No," Simms replied, using a small piece of clean cloth to wipe away the blood that covered her face. "And I have no idea. Maybe that guy can explain it for you."

He jerked a thumb in Veldoran's direction and gave him an unfriendly glance. The Warlock merely stared back at him, stoic and silent.

Placing a hand gently upon her neck to feel her pulse, Church flinched.  
>Her pulse was dangerously high.<p>

The terminal trilled harshly, indicating that the blood test had been completed.

Staring at the green-tinted screen, he cursed. "How the hell did this happen?"

"What's wrong?" Simms asked.

"Epinephrine levels in her blood are way off the scale," he rolled his eyes at Simm's stare of ignorance. "It's adrenalin. It's causing the absurd heart rate. If this goes on it might kill her."

"Is there anything you can do for her?" Veldoran's sudden interjection startled the two humans.

Church shook his head. "I haven't got the medical equipment for it. The best way is just to stabilize her as much as we can and have her wait it out."  
>Expertly, he administered an intravenous drip to her arm, taping the needle in place with a piece of surgical tape. "We shouldn't touch or disturb her while she's in this state."<p>

Simms nodded, sitting down in one of the dilapidated chairs with a sigh. "She's a strong girl, I'm sure she'll pull through."

Church shook his head and sighed as well, busying himself with loosening her clothing to aid in circulation. "What happened out there? I assumed we won, with all the cheering I heard."

"We did," Simms replied. "Thanks to Veldoran over here. He did… something. Some illusion that made the Raiders lose their minds."

"Their thoughts were chaotic and undisciplined," Veldoran affirmed. "It was easy to play with their fears."

"I've heard of people like you," Church said, after a while. "Psychics, I think they called them… Back in the Great War, the Chinese communists were playing around with the idea, but they didn't get anywhere. I used to think it was all a bunch of hokey shit."

Veldoran did not understand a few of the words the doctor spoke, but the general impression given was clear enough. He nodded. It was a human gesture that seemed to suffice in such situations. "As I told your leader, I believe her condition is a physiological reaction to my powers."

"It's odd that no one else suffered the same reaction, though," Simms mused. "You were doing the same thing for the guards as well, right? Even Geoffrey, who couldn't aim to save his life, was scoring headshots left and right when you were doing your thing…"

Veldoran nodded again. "I am not well-versed with human physiology, but I do know that others of human stock who share 'The Gift', do have such reactions to the use of such powers in their presence."

Church raised an eyebrow quizzically, and was about to voice a question when Simms placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Well then," the old lawman began. "I'll be going back out there now. Bound to be a lotta guns that need pickin' up. Tell Lyra when she wakes that she'll get her share of the loot too."

Church nodded, before turning back to Veldoran. "It was a mighty fine thing you did for us, saving this town. I'm sure we'll be glad to have you, human or no."

"You have my thanks, physician," he inclined his head respectfully. "If it is at all possible, I would like to stay here for a while, to watch over her."

"Course I don't mind," the doctor grinned. "I'd like to get myself some sleep tonight, anyway."

***  
>A little later...<p>

Alistair Tenpenny sat at his usual spot at the penthouse of Tenpenny Tower. It was a nice enough place, with a good view of the surrounding wasteland, which also served as an excellent vantage point for his "wasteland safaris". It was already around 3 o' clock in the afternoon, and the sun had made it a significant way across the sky. Next to him was his radio, tuned, as always, to Galaxy News Radio. He found the deejay, a man by the name of Three Dog, to be sanctimonious to the extreme, but beyond that, there was not a single source of music, so he tolerated it for now. If not for the Brotherhood of Steel protecting the building, he would have sent the Talon Company mercenaries to take it over long ago.

The light was a harsh white, making the view look as if it was painted in sharp relief. Ever so often he would be able to catch a glimpse of movement, and out came his trusty sniper rifle, for yet another kill in his "wasteland safari".

Just as he lined up the sights on yet another mole-rat, he heard the creak of the parlour door opening.

"Mr. Burke," Tenpenny smiled, not taking his eye off the scope. "How pleasant of you to join us."

"Yes sir," he replied tightly. Tenpenny noted his agitation as Burke sat on the lounge-chair next to his. "There has been… an unforeseen circumstance…"

"Is Megaton in flames?" he asked pointedly, already knowing the answer. Burke was startled at the sudden pop of Tenpenny's rifle going off.

The old man smiled and replaced the gun in its customary place. Yet another dead mole-rat carcass to be reclaimed by the wasteland.

"No sir," Burke replied uncomfortably. "The Raiders were unsuccessful in their attack. Those who made it back said that 'Angels' appeared and drove them off."

Tenpenny was silent for a moment as he digested the news. "Burke… your incompetence is starting to annoy me. This is the second time you have failed me in this venture, and my patience is rapidly running thin."

"I do apologize for my failures," Burke replied contritely. "But the defenses were far more deadly than expected. And the appearance of the 'Angels', or whatever the Raiders called them, cannot be easily dismissed, sir. The Raiders are insane, but the reports from their remaining leader was very clear. There was an entire army present, larger than the guard force I had observed when I was there. They were armed with weapons of strange origins, beyond the sophistication of anything ever deployed in the Capital Wasteland."

"And you missed something as obvious as an entire army when you spent time there?" Tenpenny pressed the issue testily. "Surely you can't expect me to believe such nonsense!"

There was an awkward silence following Tenpenny's reproach. To Burke, it seemed like an eternity before he spoke again.

"I have had enough of your failures, Mr. Burke," the old man's voice was a harsh, guttural growl. Out of his finely tailored suit he produced a small silenced pistol, muzzle pointed directly at the younger man's forehead, which had started to bead with sweat. At this range, Burke could see that the safety had been switched off.

It was several seconds before Tenpenny's expression turned from grim to a mocking sneer. The old man spun the gun deftly and offered it handle first to him. "You will go back to Megaton at your own expense, and you will find out who was responsible for disarming the nuclear bomb. You may take a few of the Talon mercenaries along, if you wish."

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Burke nodded, removing his fedora before doing so. "Yes sir, I won't fail you this time."

"See that you don't, Burke," Tenpenny said, as Burke took the gun out of his hand and slid it into his suit's jacket. "I will be… displeased… if you fail me again."

As Burke withdrew gratefully from his presence, Tenpenny turned back to observe the horizon once again, reaching for the cup of tea that sat on the pre-war wooden end-table next to him. It had long since gone cold, and it was with annoyance that he ordered another through the intercom.

"It's so hard to find good help these days…"

It was nighttime in Megaton, and Lyra was still in her psyker-induced coma. Still, she had shown some signs of recovery. Her heart-rate had slowed to that of a normal human's, and the epinephrine levels had long subsided. Still, as Veldoran had observed, she had not stirred one inch since then, except for the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

There was a part of him that was… disgusted with the current situation. He was in a common cause with the humans, who had long sought to destroy his race and others like him. It made no sense to ally himself with them if not for the fact that he needed their help to survive in this world, which he found himself trapped in.

And yet…

A part of him understood that these humans, while primitive, were not of the Imperium of Man. They had shown compassion and honour, despite what their successors would eventually show millennia from now. Lyra was one such human. It made no sense whatsoever to literally carry him across the barren wasteland back to Megaton just because she could help him, but she had done so nonetheless. When he asked her, she merely shrugged and replied, "The world would be a lot better if people helped each other out instead of being selfish and ignorant."

He had a small hope, no matter how faint, that his own actions might benefit his kind millennia from now.

A presence nearby jolted him out of his reverie. The physician, or "Church" as he had identified himself, was away on a house call, as one of the Megaton residents was suffering from a high fever. This new mind was not his. It was darker, more given to violent impulses. And what he had in mind…  
>He stood silently, hand braced upon the pommel of his witchblade.<p>

It was dark, except for the single light that illuminated Lyra's bed. He made sure he was well-concealed in the darkness before reaching out with his senses again.

It was the miscreant Jericho. He had heard that Lyra had been injured in the attack, and had come to have his way with her, just as he did with the proprietor of the food-outlet in town, a human by the name of Jenny Stahl.  
>From the darkness, he saw the leering face of the former Raider as he stepped up to her bed, running an appreciative hand over the gentle curves of her figure. "You and me are gonna have a little bit of fun…"<p>

With inhuman speed, Veldoran swept across the room and picked him up by the neck in one fluid stroke. The former-Raider struggled impotently against Veldoran's battle-trained strength. He tried kicking Veldoran in the groin several times, but his armour was far too protective for such a strike to be effective. He tightened his grip a little, and Jericho's struggling became more frantic and desperate.

"Cease your struggling, or your head will no longer be one with your body," he hissed, maximizing the reverberation of his mental voice for intimidation value. Immediately, Jericho stopped, his eyes bulging with fear and surprise.

"You will not do anything to dishonour her like you have done to others," he continued, walking toward the door and opening it with his free hand. With that, he threw Jericho out of the clinic, augmenting the throw with a little telekinetic burst that sent him through a pile of Brahmin faeces and into one of the girders served as a pillar for the Stahls' restaurant. There was a yelp of surprise from some Megaton residents, as well as Jenny Stahl herself as they watched the goings-on.

As he picked himself up, a glint of murderous rage was in his eyes. With an animal howl, he launched himself back at Veldoran, who gave him a casual punch to his gut, and picked up by the neck again while he was still stunned from the pain. This time, he tightened his grip even more, intent on finishing the job.

"What the hell's going on here?" Church had a look of extreme irritation upon his face as he ran down the ramp above his clinic that led to the ground level of the town. "Veldoran, you will not kill that man, you hear me?"  
>Veldoran narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. "As you wish."<p>

With yet another throw, he sent Jericho flying into the Brahmin faeces once more, and this time, the former Raider was less than inclined to get up again.  
>Ignoring the stares of the shocked residents, he returned to his seat within the clinic, Church trailing behind him.<p>

"I suppose Jericho tried stealing some chems or something, right?" Church asked, looking over the terminal that monitored Lyra's vital signs. He sighed wearily, dropping into the threadbare sofa that adorned his waiting room.  
>"He wished to take advantage of her," he replied. "I… dissuaded him from doing so."<p>

"He's a dangerous man," Church warned. "Of course, you're dangerous in your own way, but that's beside the point. He might still have connections to his past. Connections that he can use against you."

Veldoran considered this, and made a mental note to pursue the matter when he consulted the runes next. For now, he would watch over Lyra, and ensure that no harm came to her while she recovered. It was the least he could do, in return for her own kindness.

"Go get yourself something to eat," Church gave him a weak smile. "You've been watching her since this afternoon. You must be famished."

In truth, he was. But the idea of removing his helm while in the company of humans was distasteful to him. Still, he did pay the restaurant a visit, paying from the small stash of bottle-caps that had been given after Simms had sold off the Raider weapons to the visiting merchants from Canterbury Commons.  
>He ate alone, within one of the clinic's wardrooms. The packaged food tasted artificial and unhealthy, different from the aeroponically grown vegetables and the fresh meats that they traded for with their Exodite kindred while on Ulthwe. Still, it was all he had, and the Brahmin meat was as fine as any he had tasted back home. It was with this that he resumed his vigil while Church slept.<p>

For the rest of the night he sat cross legged upon the ragged bed of the adjoining ward, his meditations bringing him to the edge of sleep, but not quite there. His runestones hovered about him, singing in tune with his psychic resonance. He could feel Ilrissa's soulstone glow in empathy, and for a moment, he could feel the light brush of her mind and spirit against his.

"At least… you will be here with me, even as the darkest of days fall upon me," he cradled the gem tenderly in his taloned gauntlets. The other soulstones were respectfully silent, the spirits contained within understanding the private moment between spouses.

"Watch over me, Isha, as you do Ulthwe," Veldoran murmured a prayer under his breath. "And give Tarashe the wisdom to do that which I cannot."

***

Meanwhile, back on Ulthwe…

Tarashe's band of warriors had finally assembled. In addition to the eight Rillietann which had joined them, his force consisted of six Rangers led by Pathfinder Ronahn, and Exarch Temnestra of the Warp Spider Temple and her four greatest warriors, themselves well on the way to becoming Exarchs of the Warp Spider Temple.

As the lone Seer, the task would undoubtedly depend on his command abilities. While onerous, it was one that he had taken upon himself to complete, and if he had to, he would cleave a path back to Yrin to bring Veldoran home again.

At the entry portal to his transport, he bid farewell to his bondmate, who had since given birth to a healthy baby girl. He had named her Idlara, in tribute to the fallen Farseer Idranel, just before he had set out to request the aid of the Harlequins.

It was difficult, leaving the Craftworld once again on a quest from which there was no guarantee of return. But still, it was deep in his heart that he knew that this was the right thing to do. No matter what, Veldoran was still Ulthwe's foremost seer, and would be the one to replace Idranel in the end. He had neither the right nor the ability to replace Idranel, as many of the Seer Council had tried to persuade him was the case. However, before he left, they had given him their blessing, as well as cautioning him, as their divinations had turned up nothing but for the fact that Veldoran was still alive. It was like a stab in the dark, trying to find a single Eldar lost in the Webway, nearly akin to trying to retrieve Eldrad Ulthran's soul from the Warp itself.

As the sleek transport Kylanthe undocked from Ulthwe, he looked upon the Craftworld's crystalline grace. It was already the seventh time that he had seen Ulthwe from the exterior, but even now its size and beauty took his breath away. Ulthwe was one of the mightiest Craftworlds of the Eldar, and there was little doubt in his mind that it would continue to be so for many years to come.

"Can we ascertain a destination, At'lia?" Tarashe asked as he emerged unto the bridge of the Kylanthe.

"Yes," the Harlequin replied, again in the sing-song tone she favoured. "We make for Craftworld Biel-Tan at best speed…"


	6. Chapter 6

_Deep in her dreams, Lyra saw a wondrous crystalline world floating in the depths of space, a mighty bastion against its enemies. It was a ship of living crystal, hundreds of kilometers long, with tall spires and arches, beautiful to look at as well as pragmatically designed. Around it, countless smaller ships swam in graceful formation, each one as beautifully crafted as the next, like black and silver fishes that swam the depths of space. In her mind's eye, she saw many, many beings living on this crystalline ship, and sensed sentient presences within the superstructure as well, pulsing and glowing with life and energy._

_Quickly, her mind's eye shifted, and she saw a warrior and his wife, sharing a kiss before the warrior donned his helmet and went off to the unknown, fighting for the survival of their species. As the warrior donned his helmet, she sensed his thoughts turn orderly and disciplined, his mind resonating with inner strength. She felt his heart grow cold and cruel as the vacuum of space itself, his eyes glinting like the glimmer of moonlight upon the edge of a well-honed dagger._

_She saw him make war upon countless foes, all of them implacable in their own way. The first were creatures of living metal, their lifeless eyes glowing with unholy energies. She felt their emptiness, their hunger for life that had driven their wrath for millennia._

_Other creatures hungered as well, but their desires were much simpler, more primal than any animal that she had ever seen, driven to consume all in their path by dint of their nature. She saw a faceless void like a black hole which drove this hellish swarm through the depths of space, closer and closer to worlds filled with life, consuming all in their path with nothing but lifeless husks left in their wake._

_She saw humans, their souls devastated by desire, and their bodies corrupted beyond imagination by powers that no mortal should ever have to experience. She felt their evil, and tasted their hatred of all life and order, and their devotion to their thirsting Gods. There were four of these Gods._

_The first was a bloated and sickening morass, embodying entropy in its basest form. The second was a shifting, unclear image, forever in flux and never to be fully understood, and seducing her with whispers of power beyond her wildest dreams. The third was seductive as well, even more so in fact, as it promised pleasure in all forms, and the ability to understand pain as a form of pleasure as well. Revulsion filled her, and she pushed the thought of it away. The fourth was terror incarnate, the joy of wanton slaughter and blood and destruction. It promised her power as well, but warned her that she had to be strong enough to grasp it with both hands, to wrest it away from others in order to deserve to wield that mighty power. She saw a mighty throne of skulls surrounded by the blood of the slain, uncountable fathoms deep. She shuddered as the images coalesced into an eight-spoked wheel._

_Other humans were his foes too. Humans blinded by faith and duty, incorrupt in body and soul, but twisted in mind since the day of their birth. She saw a withered corpse upon a gleaming throne of burnished gold, long since dead and yet seemingly alive with unfathomable power coursing through its desiccated form. She shivered as she gazed upon the corpse-king's hellish visage, the dark pits of his eye-sockets seeming to gaze upon her through space and time, imploring her to understand him and his plight. Somehow, the image of a mighty double-headed eagle came unbidden to her mind, its form imprinting itself upon her consciousness, filling her with strength._

_Lyra saw the warrior once again, returning from his campaigns as a hero to his people. She saw him return at the front of a mighty war-host clad in ancient and wondrous panoply, led by a woman of ethereal beauty. Her eyes were as hard and grey as cold stone, but a sense of immense weariness seemed to emanate from her. She seemed at once ancient and yet ageless, her mind honed as sharp as any blade in this mighty host._

_And still, it all paled in comparison to the moment when he removed his helm once again, and saw the world with his own eyes and sensed it with his own mind. She saw him smile as his eyes caught the sight of his wife once more, and nothing else seemed to matter for as long as he held her in his embrace. The universe was as cruel and uncaring as it had always been, but for that moment, she was everything he would ever need or want._

_Of course, the warrior marched to war again, and was overjoyed to have his wife follow him into battle as well. She saw them fight as one, cleaving bloody swathes through the ranks of their enemies, returning victorious time after time. Though they were together, her mind drifted apart from her husband's, steeped in the joy of war and slaughter. Her lips were cold against his, and her eyes slowly grew dark and distant whenever she left the battlefield._

_Their last day together felt like a return to the days of old as they fought as one, but as with all things in this cruel universe, it had to end. Images of carnage and slaughter filled her mind's eye yet again, but felt strangely vivid and familiar. A land of infinite jungle and stone ruins, and an apocalyptic battle against a Great Enemy. Their blades danced as one, their hearts and minds joined together in the sanguine bliss of battle._

_A sword pierced her gut, vile and corrupt energies crackling around its weathered surface. Lyra could feel her pain, but it was nothing compared to the heart-wrenching agony that the warrior felt as he gazed upon her glassy, lifeless eyes._

_Those glassy, lifeless eyes, with a single tear of blood leaking from them._  
><em>She saw the weeping eye of an ancient Goddess weeping for her children, and heard the song of a long dead warrior, singing of the mighty deeds of his brother.<em>

She screamed a scream that only she could hear, a scream that seemed to last for eternity, even after breath had left her lungs bare and heaving…

Veldoran emerged from his meditative trance, his mind clear and refreshed. It had been several hours since he began his meditations, but the sun had not yet risen.

Resolving to cleanse himself before Church awoke, he walked into the treatment area to check upon Lyra before he did so. It seemed that all was calm, and she had not yet awoken from her slumber. As he brushed away stray strands of hair from her face, he noticed a steady stream of tears trickling out from her eyes.

Even with a mere cursory mental probe, he could feel the emotional turmoil within her mind. Gently laying a hand upon her temple, he touched her mind directly.

An image of Ilrissa's bloodied corpse filled his mind, her right eye weeping a single tear of her life's blood, resolving into the instantly recognizable symbol of Craftworld Ulthwe, the weeping Eye of Isha.

Lyra's mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came forth but a choked sob.

He withdrew his hand abruptly as if he had been stung.

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked upon him with abject horror.

A small scream escaped her mouth before she registered that it was, in fact, Veldoran. She tried to get up, but a gentle but firm hand from the Warlock kept her lying down.

"Be at peace, Lyra, you have nothing to fear," he said soothingly, removing his helm so that she could see his face.

A moment passed as she composed herself. She favoured him with a weak smile, her eyes still filled with tears. "I must have had a nightmare… It all seemed so real."

Veldoran narrowed his eyes, before turning to look outside the adjoining window. "I am afraid that it was no nightmare, Lyra. Those were my memories."

A look of agonized sorrow flicked across her face as she recalled her dream.

_Those glassy, lifeless eyes…_

"Who… who was she?" she asked finally, lips firmly pressed together in an effort to prevent herself from bursting into tears again.

"My bond-mate, her name was Ilrissa," he replied softly. "She died, just before I was… transported to your world."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry…" her attempts not to cry were ultimately unsuccessful, and impetuously, she pulled him into a hug, eliciting a flinch from the Eldar at the physical contact. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax, and returned the embrace as gently as he could.

"B-but… how could I dream of your memories?" she asked, after he withdrew from her embrace. "Unless you were projecting them to me-"

"Not on purpose, I assure you," Veldoran replied promptly. "I normally meditate in an insulated environment, but none was available. You might have picked up on my thoughts, as a consequence of this circumstance."  
>She looked at him quizzically.<p>

Veldoran struggled to explain it to her. "Your mind is… more receptive to such things… Perhaps you might even have… 'gifts' akin to mine."

"Like, psychic?" she looked at him dubiously.

"That term again…" he thought, before replying cautiously. "Perhaps."  
>There was a moment of awkward silence as both of them considered each other's words, which was finally broken when Veldoran remembered his original intentions.<p>

"You should rest," he turned away, walking towards the clinic's sole bathroom. "I sense that you have yet to recover fully from your exertions during the battle."

"What happened?" she turned her head weakly to glance at him

"During the battle, I used a measure of my power to guide your aim," he replied. "You had… an adverse reaction to my powers."

She was silent as she considered his words.

"As I mentioned before, it is better if you continued to rest, Lyra," he said firmly, before disappearing into the bathroom. She could hear him fiddling with the tap unfamiliarly, with a slight grunt of surprise as it the shower turned on. She giggled a little at that.

As she closed her eyes again, she willed herself to sleep.

But try as she hard as she might, it was still impossible to get the image of Ilrissa's eyes out of her mind, even after she drifted off into sleep.

_Nighttime was often dangerous in the Capital Wasteland, and as Protector Roger Sandoval knew, it was also feeding time for the various creatures that roamed the wastes, not the least of which were the Super Mutants, which appeared to travel under cover of night to various feeding grounds, where they feasted upon captured wastelanders. Such were the reports he had been getting from Outcast scouts as they happened upon Super Mutant encampments._

A few kilometers to the west of the Brotherhood Outcasts' main encampment was an abandoned diner. All right, perhaps abandoned was the incorrect word to use, for it was still very much in use, and its current purpose was well in line with the proper use of the word "diner". The key thing was that instead of Salisbury Steak and Fancy Lad snack cakes, humans were on the menu.

It took a mere thirty seconds for the Outcast Scouts to clear out the diner of the Super Mutant presence, with several well aimed shots by Defender Jenkins, and a well-timed grenade by Defender Talbot. With a few gurgles and grunts, the Super Mutants within became naught but bloodied flesh on the diner's scuffed linoleum floor.

Within minutes, they had stripped the corpses and the diner itself of anything of value. Among the junk were several energy cells, ammo boxes as well as a few dirty but serviceable assault rifles. Another day, another small find. It was at times like these that Sandoval envied his loyalist Brothers, spending day after day in downtown Washington DC clashing with the Super Mutants. At least they saw real action, not like the stealthy bullshit they had to do out in the wastes. The radio in the diner was still playing that loyalist GNR bullshit, which he silenced with a quick burst from his side-arm, a well-maintained laser pistol that he had christened Marsha after his dead wife.

"Waste of a good shot," Jenkins smirked as he dumped the radio nonchalantly into a waste-bin adjoining the diner's filthy metal counter.

"Anyway, what do we do with all these bodies? Bury them?"

Sandoval scowled. "We're not bleeding-heart loyalists. Lyons may be all caught up in that chivalric bullshit, but I'm not. We're here to collect, not save every wasteland asshole or give the dead ones a nice funeral service."

"Whoa, whoa," Jenkins held up both hands in a 'calm down' gesture. "I got it. We're done here, let's go home."

Jenkins was his second-in-command, a Defender of significant skill at knife combat as well as marksmanship. It was said that Jenkins had killed a Raider from a mile away with his dilapidated old DKS-501 with a shot straight through his right eye, a claim that he neither confirmed nor disproved. True or not, the bastard was the team's sniper, and a damned good one at that. He had one hell of a mouth on him, though, as he had just demonstrated. Sandoval appreciated the good morale his humour gave the team, but it was, at times, immensely irritating.

The scouts were mostly clad in the protective undersuit of their trademark T-45D powered armour, giving them moderate protection with superior maneuverability. Sandoval himself wore the full set sans helmet, which he kept in the backpack built into the suit itself. Today, none of that protection had to be put to the test, and it was something which he was immensely thankful for.

Jenkins had already relayed his order to move out, and the scouts were already packing up their salvage when Sandoval heard a rasping cough issue from one of the bodies littering the floor. Startled, he drew his laser pistol from his holster and aimed it at the prone body, which, from the looks of its dress, was that of a Raider. He was still alive, despite the bruises and scratches upon all of his exposed flesh. His face, already ugly to begin with, was a bleeding mess, with one eye swollen shut from a punch.

"Ggh… Help… me…" the Raider gurgled softly. Sandoval would have found it pitiful if he had any pity left for the denizens of the Capital Wasteland.

"Raider scumbag," Jenkins appeared next to Sandoval suddenly, his side-arm also out and pointed at the downed Raider. "Let's finish him and get outta here…"

"N-no... wait…" the Raider gasped. "Y-you guys are Brotherhood, right? Collect s-stuff… I know…"

"To hell with you," Jenkins raised his pistol, but Sandoval placed a hand upon the muzzle and pushed it away. Of course, he saw no reason to mention the schism between the Brotherhood of Steel to a mere Raider.

"I… was part of a Raider army… that went to Megaton… saw some strange shit there…" he coughed, blood trickling from a side of his mouth. "An entire army… there… wearing… the strangest armour and weapons I've ever seen… They beat us back… Didn't look… human…"

"A Raider army? Since when do Raiders form armies?" Sandoval asked, his tone dubious.

"And I heard no shit about any Raider attack on Megaton…" Jenkins added scornfully.

"Some guy… named Burke… promised us a ton of caps… if we burnt Megaton to the ground…" he explained wearily. "We tried to… Oh believe me… we did…"

Sandoval considered what the Raider had said very carefully. A large part of him wanted to ignore the man, but there was something about his tone of voice that made him pause. This Raider knew things, and understood that he was in over his head. Of course, he had a reason to lie, the human instinct to survive was always paramount…

"What do we do with him?" Jenkins asked, his expression one of extreme distaste.

"Leave him," Sandoval replied curtly. "Ammo's too tight to waste on someone like him."

"W-what? But… I told you everything I know…" the Raider protested weakly as Sandoval turned his back on him, about to walk out of the diner.

"Thank you, we'll put it under consideration," he said over his shoulder.

***  
>Fort Independence was the Brotherhood Outcasts' main encampment, staffed by no less than twenty Outcast members and the redoubtable Henry Casdin himself, the leader of the Outcast movement in the Capital Wasteland. To Sandoval, it was to be their home until the Ruling Council at the Lost Hills base decided to contact them again.<p>

As he approached the base, his eyes found Casdin, doing his usual rounds around the base, alone. The old bastard was a sentimental old fool, too prone to bitterness when it came to dealing with Lyons' ilk. Acknowledging him with a nod and a grunt, Sandoval walked past him, motioning for his team to hurry up. It had been a long night, and all of them were pining for their billets already, especially the ones who wore powered armour. Despite all the merits of powered armour and how it was supposed to be easier to endure than other sorts of heavy armour, it was still strapping around giant bits of metal to your body. Heavy as hell, and definitely not something you would want to do for hours on end without the proper fitness level.

Sweat dotted his olive-brown skin right through to his scalp, which he had shaven bald for easy use of helmets, considering that hair always got snagged in the T-45D helmets.

"Hold on, sir," one of the specialists stopped him as soon as he entered the building. "Protector Casdin wishes to speak to all team leaders in the conference room at 0600hrs."

"Fuck," he rolled his eyes, before replying to the uncomfortable looking specialist. "Not your fault. Carry on."

It was already 0545, and so he made his way directly to the conference room in the lower levels of Fort Independence. It was a spartan-looking affair, as was most of the facility itself, but it served as one of the most important venues in the Outcast encampment.

It was around 0550 when Henry Casdin walked in, along with the rest of the team leaders. He always was a stickler for punctuality, the old grizzled bastard.

"Roger," he greeted Sandoval with a nod. "Sorry to make you attend this briefing. Looks like you didn't have enough time to get out of your suit."

"Just make it quick, Henry," Sandoval allowed himself a small, wry smile.

The rest of the team leaders, Protector Kawalski, Protector Pryde and Head Specialist Dobson, took their seats around the large round table that dominated the majority of the conference room. Casdin himself sat to Sandoval's left, and began his briefing without preamble.

"We've received word recently that a massive Raider attack force was defeated at the town of Megaton recently, with a few survivors returning to tell tales of some kind of high-tech army over there, defending the city from attack," he began. Sandoval felt a chill run down his spine. "We have no visuals of this event, but from analysis of the Raider prisoners we've captured, it seems plausible that there is something going on here. Something that we can make use of."

There was silence as the command team digested Casdin's words.  
>"Right now, I believe we need to boost our surveillance of the area around Megaton, and perhaps even infiltrate the town itself," he gestured to Kawalski. "Your assault force hasn't been seeing much action recently, and so, I'll be subbing some of your members to Sandoval's team."<p>

Kawalski nodded. "They need some scouting experience anyway. I'm sure Roger can show them the ropes."

Sandoval nodded in appreciation, but said nothing.

"Dobson, I need you to begin planning an infiltration mission into Megaton. Identify those with experience in dealing with the natives, and write up a list for me," Casdin continued. Dobson nodded as well, adjusting his leather work-gloves for the millionth time.

"Sandoval, your daily scouting missions will end as of today. I'd like you split your team and assign the second one to Jenkins. I want round-the-clock surveillance on Megaton," he gave Sandoval a firm pat on the back, which he could not feel considering the armour he was wearing. "Get some rest. Dismissed."

"Henry," Sandoval said, stopping the elder Outcast in his tracks. "My team happened upon a Raider today. He said the exact same thing as you did in the briefing."

"That's good," Casdin grinned. "Shows that we aren't chasing after shadows."

"He said that whoever they are, they don't even look human," he said softly.

Casdin's smile faded somewhat. "There are many things in the wasteland that don't look human any more. Maybe this is one of them."

"Perhaps," Sandoval conceded. "But there is something about this that I don't like, Henry."

"Yeah, I don't like going on missions based on the word of Raiders, but this opportunity is too good to pass up, if it's true," Casdin said. "Besides, I've got word that Lyons' has got the loyalists watching Megaton already. If we're not careful, we'll lose the advantage to him."

Sandoval frowned at the mention of the loyalist Brotherhood of Steel. It never pleased him to be reminded of the schism, but in this case, it was something more than rivalry. If they were able to retrieve advanced technology of incredible magnitude, it would prove that the schism between the Outcasts and the Loyalists was justified, and that the Loyalists truly had lost their way.

"I'll see what I can do," Sandoval said, voice taut with quiet determination.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As Lyra recovered from her mental injuries, Veldoran saw fit to train her in the basics of swordplay that he also taught to his own junior Warlocks back on the Craftworld. He recognized that a goodly portion of it relied on superior Eldar speed in perception and movement, but there were a few basic ones that would be a definite boon to her if she ever found herself in a melee.  
>Veldoran's prior stint as a Dire Avenger was helpful as well, considering that Aspect's focus on conglomerated swordplay methods that incorporated styles from many other melee-oriented Aspects, such as the Howling Banshees and the Striking Scorpions. Of course, as a human, she would never be able to fully master any of the advanced techniques, but she had shown remarkably quick progress in the base to intermediate styles within a week of coaching while she recuperated.<p>

Today was one such training session, where the both of them fenced with surplus metal pipes that Simms had thrown out. Both of them were clad in light and form-fitting attire, with a cap in Veldoran's case, allowing for clear representation of weapon impact and overall management of form. So far, there had been a few bruises and scrapes, nothing that would require much, if any attention afterwards.

Teaching her the art of parrying a larger weapon was to be one of their most challenging, as well as oft-used styles, considering the weapons that the Eldar's foes favoured. Power fists and claws, massive hammers and staves. Even here, in this new world, he recognized that it was much of the same thing.

"Fluid motions," he said. "Sudden movements should still be fluid, not merely abrupt."

He demonstrated the stroke again, and Lyra mirrored it with some effort.  
>"Good, good," he encouraged. "Try that again."<p>

She did so, somewhat lacking in confidence but still getting it right.  
>He placed two hands on his own pipe, miming a hammer-user's resilient stance and gait. "Counter this, Lyra."<p>

She did so with the strokes he had taught, adding a few more from his earlier lessons as well, with the pinpoint stab that Veldoran himself favoured in his own fighting style. He was impressed, as she had learnt that merely from watching him use it. With the fluid grace of an apprentice Eldar warrior, she avoided his strikes, before landing a few strikes to his abdomen and shoulders.

"Good, you bring your observations of my stance into play here," he nodded. "Remember, you must know how to deal with each particular strike instinctively."

A small crowd had formed around their outdoor practice area, watching them with amused wonder. Jericho himself watched them with dour intensity. Veldoran knew that the old Raider still had designs on the young human female, and resolved to watch him carefully. So far, he had not acted on his desires, and he was unarmed at the behest of Lucas Simms himself.  
>The crowd of onlookers were getting somewhat rowdy, and Veldoran was about to stop their lessons for the day when he had a flash of inspiration.<br>"Would anyone like to test my student?" he called out to the crowd.

Suddenly, the entire group went silent, until one person within it hollered, "What's it worth to ya?"

He looked at Lyra, who stood there, glistening with sweat. "What do you say to that?"

"Fifty caps," she replied, smiling.

The person who spoke up first came forward. His name was Alain, a large man of Caucasian descent, with arms as big as anyone's thighs. "If you win, I'll give ya those caps. If you lose… you give me a kiss with them pretty lips of yours."

"On the cheek?" she asked, amused.

"That's getting off easy! Tongue and everything, baby," he grinned.

"Come and get it then," she batted her eyelashes coyly and smiled.

"The winner will be decided by the one who manages to strike a blow first," he announced, before stepping to a side. "You may begin."

Wielding the pipe with deftness that surprised all gathered, Alain attacked first. Lyra absorbed the first blow with her own makeshift weapon, shocked by the sheer force behind the swing.

Alain smiled, swinging the pipe again, his eyes watching her weapon closely. This time, she evaded it quickly, rolling across the hard-packed ground to a side. She swung her pipe across at his shins, but he hopped away just in time.

"Tricksy little thing, aren't cha?" he chuckled.

She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry, eliciting raucous laughter from the crowd.

He followed up with a few more follow-up strikes, which she deflected easily. Veldoran was pleased to see that she did not tackle Alain head on with his superior strength. She was gauging him, watching his stance and analyzing it for weaknesses as he had taught her.

Finally, she dodged another strike and gave Alain a foot sweep that knocked him flat, and poked him in the ribs gently with her pipe. "Gotcha."

Laughing, he sat up, brushing himself off. "Good one."

Ever the good sport, Lyra planted a kiss on his cheek. "Consolation prize."  
>The crowd burst out in a fit of catcalls and laughter as the big man turned redder than a beetroot.<p>

"Anyone else?" Veldoran could not help but smile a little at her exuberance, which reminded him a little of Ilrissa during her days as a rank-and-file Howling Banshee.

A wave of "nuh-uh"s and "Not me"s answered him, and he called an end to the training session.

These new humans were far more accepting than those of his own time, he found. It had been nearly a month since his arrival in Megaton, and the locals were beginning to treat him as one of them, especially since he made the decision to doff his armour when he was walking around the town. Jenny Stahl in particular harboured a quiet respect for him, which he knew stemmed from his fracas with Jericho. Every now and then she would slip an extra bit of Salisbury Steak into the food package which he got from her restaurant at the start of each day.

Back at home, Veldoran began his meditations, while Lyra ran a few errands for Moira. It was a quiet evening, a fact which he used to his advantage, sinking deeper into his meditative trance. There was a clattering sound from where he kept Arbiter-of-Death in its scabbard, but he paid no heed. It always reacted like so when he meditated.

It was about three hours later when he heard a shocked yelp from the outside of the house. From his prior read of the area, he knew for a fact that it was Lyra, and someone else…

He refocused his mind to get a better read.

"Jericho," he hissed. Immediately, he reached for his witchblade and opened the door, intent on dispatching the criminal. Jericho had her in a firm lock, a lascivious leer on his face. His right hand held a pistol, which he had placed at the side of Lyra's head.

"Aah, if it isn't little Lyra's lover," he said. "You're coming with me, bud. I've got a few friends who're willing to pay a lot of caps to capture the both of you alive."

"You will let her go or you will die," Veldoran's voice was cold and unrelenting, like the blade he held in his hand.

"Or what? You're going to stick me with that big fancy sword of yours?" he snorted, before taking an exaggerated sniff of Lyra's hair. "My my, you smell so good, little girl."

"Enough," he growled, and focused his mind directly on Jericho. Even without his helmet to focus the energies, Veldoran had enough practice without it to virtually incinerate his brain. With a gurgle, Jericho began to lapse into uncontrollable spasms, blood leaking out his nostrils as he died.

Lyra broke out of his hold and backed away, eyes wide in horror as she watched Jericho die painfully.

Veldoran's eyes shone silver with uncontained psyker energy as he continued to focus his mind on the former Raider, making sure that there was no possibility of survival. It would be better that way, instead of allowing him to live with permanent brain damage.

Finally, he stopped the flow of energy, as Jericho had already died and his facial orifices had already started to smoke. Drool trickled out of his dead mouth, and his eyes had rolled back into their sockets, showing only the whites.

"I… I'd better call Doc Church," Lyra stammered.

"No, he's dead," Veldoran shook his head. "I made sure of it."

Simms was unhappy at the nature of his death, but understood why he had done it nonetheless. He had a few men carry it outside for burial, and spoke nothing more of it.

Among the items they had found on his person was a small holotape, compatible with many terminals as well as Lyra's Pipboy, detailing a contract whereupon delivery of his captives he would be given a sum of no less than five hundred caps…

The morning was still young when Lyra woke him from his slumber. She had already gone on to buy foodstuffs for their journey to the radio station he had identified from his scrying, and it was high time that they investigate the information they got from Moriarty's mind. It would be a day-long trek to the outside of the D.C. Ruins, where they would have to go through the semi-collapsed subway in order to get beyond the streets blocked by rubble.

She had marked the location on her Pipboy and made sure to check it every few hours. Veldoran had donned his armour once again, though he kept his helm off until the scorching midday sun began to shine upon them. Lyra wore the hat that Simms had given to her as a parting gift. He explained that he kept several copies of the damn thing anyway, when she refused to accept his trademark hat. Armour-wise, she had gotten Moira to add a few bits and pieces to her standard combat armour to increase its durability. So far, she had not had the chance to test the modifications out, and it would be better if it stayed that way.

The trip had been uneventful for the first few hours, passing a few radscorpions and mole-rats, with the odd Enclave eye-bot floating along occasionally. The eye-bots creeped her out somewhat. It was impossible to determine if the recording was recent or ancient, and it did not help that the voice of "…your president, John Henry Eden…" seemed so hopeful and authoritative, something that did not mesh with the ruin and misery she saw all around them.

It was in the seventh hour of their trek that Veldoran called for a halt, and pulled her behind some rocks. The cover was decent, and the midday sun cast a shadow which made it difficult for anyone to spot them even if they were looking from the other side.

Peeking above the boulder which kept them hidden, Lyra spotted a group of heavily armed gunmen clad in black combat armour. It seemed that they were proceeding in some sort of search pattern.

Veldoran withdrew a rune from his satchel, watching it flare with corposant as he held it in his hand. It was the rune of consequence once again.

"They… are looking for you," Veldoran gave some of their minds a cursory glance(which was all he could do at this range) and found that they were also, like Jericho, on a mission to hunt them down. "I advise that we avoid them, rather than engage. These are trained mercenaries, nothing like the barbarians which attacked your town."

Lyra snuck another peek, and saw that he was right. The way they hefted their weapons, the way they conducted themselves, was all similar, as if it had been relentlessly drilled into their minds. Looking through her binoculars, she managed to spot a particular symbol stenciled onto the right breast of their armour.

An eagle's talon.

"Talon… talon…" Lyra racked her brains. It sounded hellishly familiar. "Fuck… this rings a bell… Oh."

Talon company, a group of mercenaries that roamed the wasteland collecting on contracts that no other mercenary company would ever pick up on. Three Dog, the DJ of Galaxy News Radio, had mentioned them several times already.  
>"Stay the fuck away from these bastards!" she remembered him saying. She smiled grimly. If they were after her in particular, the one who wanted her dead was definitely very rich, and very amoral. It was the smart thing to keep their distance and let them just pass by.<p>

But she never learnt anything from being smart.

"Vel, if I'm going to stop these bastards from coming after me, I'm going to have to find out where they come from," she grinned. "If you run some kinda interference for me, I just might be able to pick some of them off."

"This all seems rather familiar to me," Veldoran sighed, referring to the circumstances of their first meeting. "Very well then…"

Despite the nature of the mercenaries, there were only four of them. Three had armour that was shiny and new, indicating that they were rookies. The last one, whom Lyra presumed to be the leader, was a grizzled old veteran whose armour was scorched and pitted. Scars crisscrossed his face, which he tried to cover up by growing a beard. Furthermore, to support her theory, she could see him barking orders to the others. He moved smoothly and professionally, scanning the horizon with an experienced eye.

Veldoran used an old technique he had learnt in his younger days as a seer to listen in on what they were saying, expanding the radius to include Lyra, so that she could hear as well. It would be easier than reading his mind at such range, and the information would be passed to Lyra immediately as well.

"- stupid kids! Our target will be passing through this area soon enough, and I don't want you wet-behind-the-ears rookies to fuck it up for me, d'you hear?" the veteran roared at the rest of his underlings. "You will fan out, and you will find that holy little bitch for me, do you understand me?"

A chorus of fearful affirmatives answered him.

"Good, and keep your eyes open. She's reputed to be a hell of a marksman, so take cover if you find yourself contacted," the veteran continued.

Lyra smiled a little at the appraisal, as well as the "holy little bitch" comment.

"They are untested…" Veldoran mused. "I may be able to use this to our advantage…"

With a slight mental nudge, he amplified the three rookies' anxiety levels, drawing out suspicions and slipping doubt into their minds.

"Oh gawd, chief. I don't lahk this…" one of the rookie troopers said. "I got this strange feelin' that we're bein' watched…"

"Stow it, trooper!" the vet hissed. "You will get back to your search, and you will find that bitch, you understand me?"

There was a sudden scream, and a burst of automatic fire.

"Aaaah fuck!" another rookie trooper, the one who fired his weapon, cursed as he saw a small-ish looking radscorpion climb out from a small burrow. The creature was instantly killed, its body lying in a slowly expanding pool of greenish ichor.

"What is your major malfunction, trooper?" the veteran placed his bearded face mere centimetres in front of the misbehaving trooper's face. "You do not waste ammunition on the local wildlife unless I say so, you-"

His sentence was quickly cut off by a 7.62mm bullet entering his cranium at close to seven hundred metres per second. At that speed and with that caliber, his head exploded like a ripe melon, spraying gore, skull fragments and brain matter on everything within a metre radius of the body.

The unfortunate trooper who was, at that moment, being scolded by the veteran, collapsed onto the ground without a word. The sudden stink and the rapidly darkening stain in his pants told his friends that he had voided his bowels in shock. Not surprisingly, he was covered in blood and brain matter from face to torso, and the shocked expression on his face quickly turned to terror.

The three of them screamed, but only one of them had the presence of mind to take cover.

She quickly proved that his taking cover was relatively pointless with his head sticking out.

One more began to fire into a cluster of rocks which he felt was where the shots were being fired from. The stupid man died without realizing his error.  
>The final one, the one with blood and brain matter painting his face, merely sat there, howling in terror until his throat was hoarse, before collapsing onto the sandy ground, his lungs heaving. His rifle lay on the ground, out of his reach and forgotten.<p>

It took around five minutes to get down from their vantage point. She approached the final trooper, her silenced pistol aimed directly at his head. The man made no attempt to scrabble for his weapon, and continued to hyperventilate as she drew nearer.

Finally, she looked upon him, face to face. He was a young man, not much older than she was.

"What's your name?" she asked, still aiming her pistol directly at his face. Veldoran stood close by, senses alert for any follow-up patrols.

"Johnny Velasquez, Talon Company, Trooper first class," he answered immediately. The whites of his eyes contrasted with his dark, blood-covered face. "Please… don't kill me. I was just in it for the money."

"Do you know my name?" she asked patiently.

"Lyra… Lyra Kendal," he replied. "Target 1737 Alpha Priority."

Her eyes widened his surprise, she had only used her last name several times since leaving the vault, one of them was when she introduced herself to Lucas Simms.

"Who sent you to kill me?" she continued, voice still as gentle and casual as if she was ordering coffee from Stahl's restaurant.

"His name was Burke. He's an agent of Mr. Tenpenny. Mr. Tenpenny has a long-term contract with Talon Company at the moment," he replied quickly.

"Who's Tenpenny?"

"Alistair Tenpenny, he owns Tenpenny Tower."

"Do you have the coordinates?"

"It's in a holotape, in my right pants pocket."

Veldoran strode up to him and put a booted foot onto Velasquez's right hand in a decidedly ungentle manner, eliciting a curse from him.

"No tricks," he growled, drawing his witchblade and pointing it at Velasquez's neck. He knew that the trooper concealed a blade in his right pocket, and would have stabbed her with it. "Check his left pocket, Lyra."

She withdrew a holotape from his left pocket and interfaced it with the Pipboy. A small marker appeared on the map, southwest of Megaton, in the OPPOSITE direction of where they were headed. "Fuck."

"Was there a reason for the profanity?" Veldoran asked.

"It's far. And we've walked in the opposite direction already," she replied, frowning.

"We will have to resolve this as soon as possible, or the journey to your father will be far more perilous with these mercenaries on our heels," Veldoran reasoned.

"True," she nodded ruefully, before gesturing with her pistol at the prone trooper. "What about him?"

He stabbed Velasquez once in each foot, the blade slicing through the boot-leather as if it was mere paper, eliciting a high-pitched scream from the trooper. "He will not follow us."

As an afterthought, he sliced the trooper's rifle in half before they moved on.  
>"Tenpenny Tower, here we come," she said under her breath.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Ok, I replied to Carlos' comment that Veldoran is starting to get Mary-Sueish.

Here is my stand on the situation:

Veldoran has spent most of his adult life at war, a war that is far more dire and terrifying than anything the Fallout universe can throw at him. Imagine if you spent entire adolescent and adult life in Afghanistan waging guerrilla warfare. If you survived, you'd be very VERY good at it.

This guy has spent more than our collective lifetimes fighting monstrosities that would turn any normal human insane, or dead, or worse. It would be akin to making an adult fight a child. Capiche?

Chapter 8

It was almost nighttime when they found the first sign of habitation, a stretch of old buildings that was somewhat less dilapidated than the rest of the ruins that lay around them. It seemed odd that such a place, with no protection from the elements and no proper guardians, managed to survive and even thrive, if the sounds that issued forth from the houses rang true.

Through her binoculars, she had managed to catch sight of a few people, dressed in everyday, casual clothing, walking about and having conversations with one another. Children ran about in the run-down playground, with their parents looking on. It all seemed rather idyllic, and something about it gave her the urge just to walk up to the kids and play with them. They all had the same carefree nature about them that she had only seen in Billy Creel's adopted daughter, a young girl of Asian descent called Maggie. Her good friend Harden (the sheriff's son), was taking after his father in many ways, including the gruffness he showed to strangers.  
>They needed shelter for the night, and so, she found it prudent to approach the locals to procure some sort of accommodation for the both of them. Veldoran followed close behind, removing his helmet and draping some cloth over his armour to conceal it, as well as the scabbard of his witchblade.<p>

The first person she spoke to was a middle-aged man who stood out on the porch of what she presumed was his home. He was a nice, gentle-looking man, with a small greying goatee that she presumed compensated for his bald head. Greeting her with a broad, somewhat tired looking smile showing near immaculate teeth, he extended his hand and gripped hers in a firm handshake.

"Hi, I'm Lyra, and this is Vel," she returned his smile with one of her own. "We're new in town."

"Nice to meet you," he began. "I'm Jack, Jack Smith. The lady over there in the green dress is my wife Linda."

The person in question turned to look at them, favouring Lyra and Veldoran with a warm smile as well. She walked over, dusting her hands on the back of her dress. "Hi, we're just about to have dinner. Would you like to join us?"

"Nah, we're wondering if you guys might have someplace for us to stay the night," she replied politely. "It's getting late, and we've got an early day tomorrow. We'll pay for it, of course."

"Oh, we don't have the space to spare, but I do know that the Wilsons next door have a guest room that'll likely be empty," Linda gestured to their neighbours, who waved back merrily.

"Oh, okay," Lyra nodded. "We'll ask them then."

The head of the Wilson family was a blond man by the name of Willy (Or Billy, as he preferred to be called), sharing a similar goatee to Mr. Smith, except that it was blonde instead of grey, making them look rather similar in appearance. He was just as friendly as Mr. Smith, and so was his wife, Martha.

"I'm sure we could come to some sort of arrangement," he replied, when Lyra put forth her offer. "Don't worry about payment just yet. We'll talk about it after dinner."

"Oh, we couldn't… " Lyra replied. "We're imposing enough as it is. Besides, we've the food we packed for our journey."

His smile faded somewhat, but he nodded. "Alright. Go right in, the guest room is up the stairs to the left."

The room was decent enough, though the curtains were somewhat tattered and the bedsheets were mildewed. The problem was that there was only one queen-sized bed, which Veldoran offered to rectify by sleeping on the floor. She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand, knowing that the both of them would need the rest.

Mrs. Wilson came in soon after with another set of bedsheets and a blanket. She quickly replaced the mildewed ones with the practiced air of a homemaker.

"You sure you don't want any dinner?" she asked, before leaving.

Lyra nodded and smiled politely. "I'm sure, Mrs. Wilson."

"Please, call me Martha," she replied sweetly. "Have a good night, now."

She closed the door on the way out, leaving the both of them in peace.

"What's wrong?" Lyra noted the look of distaste on Veldoran's face.

"I smell… blood," he wrinkled his nose ever so slightly, frowning. "Fresh  
>blood."<p>

"What kind?" she asked, staring at him intently.

"Human."

***

Meanwhile…

It had taken several weeks to find their way to Biel-Tan Craftworld, as the mighty vessel was well-hidden even from the eyes of their kin. Finally, they had found it in orbit around an Exodite World, well-hidden from prying eyes thanks to its powerful camouflage fields and well-defended by a fleet almost as large as Ulthwe's own. It's design was similar, but not completely alike, considering the immense solar sails that protruded from its massive bulk. It was beautiful, though Tarashe naturally favoured Ulthwe best of all.

They were quickly given clearance to dock, as Ulthwe and Biel-Tan were often in close alliance with one another in many matters of both civilian and military import. Standing at the main airlock was the premier Seer's majordomo, a Warlock by the name of Zelan. He wore the same armour as Tarashe, with some differences with regards to design as well as colour. Of course, the colour was a major contrast. Instead of Tarashe's silver, black and bone-white heraldry, Zelan wore a robe of deep green, almost black, overlaid with powder-white. His mask was a clean white as well, in opposition to the beige bone of Tarashe's.

"We bring tidings from Ulthwe, kindred," Tarashe greeted Zelan formally. "And would speak to your Lady Seer."

"Farseer Macha has forseen your arrival, and she awaits you within her sanctum," Zelan inclined his head. "Follow me."

Through the winding halls of Biel-Tan they walked, noting the differing craftsmanship of the Craftworld. Where Ulthwe was sombre and dark, Biel-Tan was proud and bright. The craftsmanship of the bonesingers were definitively excellent, and many statues decorated the various niches and alcoves, including one of the mighty Eldrad Ulthran, one of the seers held in universally high regard by all Eldar. The statue of him was truly magnificent, fashioned out of wraithbone that was a shiny black in hue. Every last detail was perfect and correct, right down to the many runes and etchings upon the staff of Ulthamar, which were outlined in gold and silver.

The small force of Ulthwe Eldar stood in awe of the two storey tall statue, which looked down upon with a sombre air. Even the mercurial Harlequins were impressed, he could tell, from the graceful reverence they exhibited.  
>"Come, we must move on," Zelan reminded them, jolting them out of their reverie.<p>

Finally, they came to the Dome of Seers, where Farseer Macha was in communion with her forbears. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the main hall, a dozen differing runes floated about her, ever so often, they would flash white and red, denoting matters of import. As Tarashe's entourage moved closer, Macha opened her eyes, which Tarashe noted to be a deep, tawny green.

Where Idranel had been like a blade, beautiful but severe, Macha was warm and enchanting. Her deep red hair flowed like a scarlet river down her back, contrasting with the perfectly fair white of her flesh. Her face was marked with several tattoos along her cheeks, with the rune of sight marked directly on her forehead. She wore a white shift that shared the same pure white as her skin, though it glittered and shifted hue in the light ever so slightly. She seemed (as he had heard human captives speak of Eldar) ethereal, fey-like, and it seemed that a mere breath would whisk her sylph-like body away. Tarashe knew better than to think that. He was well aware of her exploits in battle, especially her many campaigns against the Great Enemy, as well as the upstart Mon-Keigh of the Imperium. She led from the front, fighting alongside the Aspect Warriors, and her prowess with the Singing Spear was well-documented.

"Kin of Ulthwe," she smiled gently, revealing teeth like mother-of-pearl. "Welcome, Warlock Tarashe."

Tarashe bowed, as did the rest of his entourage.

"I know why it is you have come," she said, picking up a small blue gem that sat next to her. "You hunt for your lost leader, Veldoran."

Tarashe nodded, knowing that a Seer of her ability would already know their plight. "Yes, Lady Seer, that is correct. The Rillietanninform me that you would have the ability to call upon a certain spirit who would know the Webway enough to find him."

Macha nodded and stood, placing the blue gem within a slot on the polished wraithbone floor that lay just ahead of her.

Immediately, a webway aperture flashed into existence at one side of the Dome of Seers, directly behind Macha. It emitted a low hum as it charged, before the gate crackled to life, the event horizon glowing silvery-blue.  
>She stood up and walked towards the gate, focusing her mind upon the aperture. Her eyes glowed silver with eldritch energy, corposant slithering around her hands and her eyes. The Rune of Sight in her forehead was no longer a deep black, but glowed blue with focused psyker energy.<p>

"Jaq Draco," she murmured. "Come forth, I require your aid."

There was a moment of utter silence, and before long, a dim apparition appeared just a metre away from where they stood. It was a tall and powerful-looking human, clad in powered-armour of shifting hue. He was bald, but bearded, out of which a tattoo emerged. A tattoo of a many-tentacled beast.

"A human who died in the Webway?" Tarashe was stunned.

"Macha," the apparition greeted warmly. "How may I assist you?"

"My kindred of Ulthwe wish to find one of their own," Macha said. "A Warlock, by the name of Veldoran. He was lost in the Webway, but his Second, Tarashe, is certain he survived."

"I know of him," the apparition nodded. "After all, he treads the same path that I once did."

Macha's eyes widened. "He has…"

"Yes, there is but one place where time flows backward in the Webway…"

***  
>Once again, Meanwhile…<p>

"Human blood?" Lyra affixed him with a look of incredulity. "Some sort of injury, perhaps?"

"No," Veldoran shook his head firmly. "This house reeks of it. And rotting flesh."

"I smell… nothing," she tried sniffing about, merely catching the scent of whatever Mrs. Wilson was cooking downstairs. "Just food."

"I am not mistaken, Lyra," Veldoran insisted. "Perhaps human senses are not as keen."

"Perhaps," she replied, motioning to remove her pack and her armour. "I'm sure we can investigate tomorrow. I'm not really up for any more activity today."

She walked to the adjoining bathroom and closed the door, clad only in the, greyish-blue, loose-fitting underwear she had brought from her vault. "Excuse me for a moment."

Narrowing his eyes, he donned his helmet and cast an aura of concealment about him. With this, he would be able to move around undetected as he investigated the area. Gently, he closed the door behind him after exiting the guest room.

The Wilsons were busy at dinner, a fact for which he was thankful. As he went downstairs, the smell grew stronger, and was almost unbearable nearest to the food preparation area. He strode quickly and quietly past the dinner table into the kitchen and opened the refridgerator just slightly, not enough for any of them to hear it.

The scent was clear and unbearably strong.

He shut the door in disgust.

The smell was coming from a door adjoining the kitchen as well. He tried it, but it was locked. A sick, niggling feeling began to coalesce at the back of his mind as he put two and two together.

By now, dinner was almost done, and their child had proceeded upstairs to her room. The remaining two adults remained behind, sipping small glasses of alcohol.

"What are we going to do about those two upstairs?" Martha asked as she sipped her whiskey slowly. "We've still got supplies for a week or two."

"We could store them, I guess," Willy replied, fiddling with his shot-glass absently. "Never hurts to have a little extra food."

"True," Martha conceded. "We're going to have to invite them to breakfast tomorrow and drug the food."

"Yeah," Willy nodded.

Disgusted, Veldoran made his way back to their room, where he accidentally walked in while Lyra was dressing.

"My apologies," he said, removing himself until she was done. Strangely, she was bemused, rather than angry or irritated.

"You went to look about the house, I assume?" Lyra said as he re-entered the room.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replied. "We must leave immediately."

"What, why?"

"They are..." Veldoran tried to find a word to describe his findings. "I am not sure what they are called in the human tongue. The Eldar term for it is T'chakaragth."

She did not even try approximating what he had said. "Huh. What's that?"

"Loosely translated," Veldoran said. "It is the name of an animal which sustains itself by consuming the flesh of its own kind."

"Cannibals?" she was stunned. "Are you sure?"

Striding quickly to her, he placed a hand on the side of her head. "I will show you."

A flash of images assaulted her mind, slowing down as she concentrated. She heard the conversation between the two Wilsons, and witnessed what Veldoran had seen and smelled in the refrigerator, and finally, caught a glimpse of the door, ominously locked and smelling of rotting human flesh.

"Fuck," she hissed.

"Do you believe me now?" Veldoran asked, darkly amused.

There was a moment as she considered her options. She did believe Veldoran, she really did. But the thing was, she had to see it for herself before she made any concrete options.

"Are you absolutely sure you want to follow that course of action?" he said, reading her mind. "I will not stop you, but I will caution you that it may be too much for you to take."

She nodded. "I want to. And I feel better knowing you're here to advise me."  
>Veldoran nodded briskly. He respected the young human's nature, not taking the easy way out, and going the extra mile to do the maximum amount of good. He hoped that her disciplined and charitable nature would not backfire on her.<p>

"As you wish," he said. "I can conceal us for the duration, and ensure that they do not come near while we explore beyond the locked door."

She slipped into the soft slippers that Mrs. Wilson had provided, using its cushioned surface to minimize any footfall noises. "Let's go."

As they crept downstairs, Veldoran scanned the area with his keen mind. The Wilsons were already in their bedroom, getting ready to retire. Their daughter was off in her own little world, surrounded by her toys. It was the perfect moment to begin their infiltration.

Quickly and quietly, they proceeded downstairs, wincing at the creaks of the old staircase as they did so. While Veldoran could manipulate their minds to avoid hearing the sound, it would be best if it did not come to such a situation, as discrepancies in their perception could prove deadly to the secrecy of their mission.

As they approached the door, Lyra slipped a bobby-pin out of her bodice, picking the lock with impressive speed. The door swung open quietly, its hinges obviously well-oiled. She peered within, spying nothing but darkness. A musty and faint metallic tang touched her nostrils, and she shivered slightly.

"There is still time to turn back, Lyra," Veldoran whispered.

"No," Lyra steeled herself, and activated her Pip-boy's ambient light.

Descending into the murky depths of the Wilsons' basement, the metallic tang in the air grew, until she could at last identify its source. A thin trail of scarlet liquid across the old and scuffed linoleum floor… leaking from the side of a wooden table. A butcher's knife bit deeply into the wood, standing upright. Even in the dim light, she could see the dried blood upon it. Upon the table, almost out of her sight, was a limb. A leg, to be exact.

She inched closer, quelling the dread in her heart. That leg was detached from its parent body, which lay on yet another wooden table.

A dead wastelander stared at her, his eyes dried open and his mouth a bloody rictus of horror. Strewn around the whole room was bits and chunks of human flesh, and another body hung upon a makeshift meat-hook, slowly draining of blood. The cadaver's pale face stared at her with glassy looking eyes, piercing her soul with its deadness. The smell, was that of fresh meat, like that of a butcher's shop, with a lingering undertone of rot.

Overcome with nausea, Lyra stumbled. Veldoran caught her quickly, placing a gauntleted hand upon her face. "Focus, Lyra. Focus on me."

Her eyes, dilated in fear, calmed and focused on him. Her breathing slowed as Veldoran projected his own calm into her mind, smothering all hint of fear and revulsion.

"Very good," he said. "Now, we will leave, and consider our options. Agreed?"  
>Lyra nodded. "L-let's go."<p>

Together, they left the horrific scene, inching upstairs and locking the basement door after they had exited. Veldoran's temporary mental numbing had worn off, and tears of fright and anger streamed down Lyra's cheeks.  
>As they sat down upon the mattress, Veldoran began to speak to her of the history of the Eldar. Specifically, the birth of Slaanesh and the subsequent annihilation of a significant portion of the Eldar species. He spoke calmly of the Exodites, the Craftworld Eldar, and the Harlequins, and how they were all inter-related and depended on each other for survival. The steady stream of information soothed her, bringing order to the chaos within her mind.<p>

An hour later, he finished his tale, feeling the calm within her mind. He made no "I told you so" comment, for which she was grateful. Heaving a shuddering sigh, she wiped her eyes and studied his impassive mask.

Almost in response to that, he removed it, staring intently back at her. "Have you come to a decision?"

She nodded, beginning to tug on her dusty travel-boots. "We can't allow them to continue preying on innocent travelers. Not any more."

"You wish to cleanse this place," Veldoran said, reading the sentiment from her mind. "Quietly."

She nodded again, before slipping her pistol out of its holster and attaching the silencer. Deftly, she slipped the magazine out, checking that it was loaded, before re-inserting it and priming the firing mechanism with a quick shift of her fingers. "Stay here, I'll handle this myself."

Veldoran nodded silently as she left, closing the door behind her.  
>It was simple enough to find their room, simple enough to slip in without a sound. It was, however, difficult to pull the trigger. Her hands shivered as she pointed the pistol at Willy, who lay together with his wife upon their bed, snoring softly.<p>

She could not bring herself to pull the trigger.

Willy stirred slightly, and Lyra's heart leapt into her throat. Thankfully, he did not awake.

Again, she steeled herself, picturing the two poor dead wastelanders in the basement. There was no two ways about it. Their crimes were unforgivable.  
>She pointed the muzzle directly at his forehead and pulled the trigger. The silencer did its work, reducing the usually deafening bang to a mere 'ptchk', which was softer than the choked whisper he made as he died.<p>

Martha shifted a little, still asleep. Lyra did the same for her, the same understated 'ptchk' and she was dead. Lyra bit back a sob and left the room. All she could think of was little Jenny, sleeping in her room next door. Who would look after Jenny with her parents gone? She grimaced and headed back into their room where Veldoran waited.

"Shall we go?" Veldoran asked. He had already packed up what little stuff they had. Lyra gave him a weak smile and slipped into her armoured jacket before hoisting her backpack. Quietly, they left the house, and was about the close the door when another resident appeared.

He was a forlorn-looking old man, dressed in a dirty set of pre-war clothes, with a pair of glasses perched upon his wizened nose. He looked at them, a plea in his eyes.

Veldoran froze, keen eyes studying his face. Slowly, his hand crept toward his witchblade as he trawled through the old man's mind.

"Leave this place," the old man said. "You don't want to stay in Andale."

"He knows," Veldoran whispered, his eyes narrowed. "He knows that they are… cannibals."

"Hi there," Lyra forced cheer into her voice. "We were just about to leave."

"He is one of them as well," Veldoran's voice was loud enough for the both of them to hear.

Lyra raised her pistol, its muzzle aimed squarely at the old man. Oddly, he made no move to avoid it, merely staring at her with those piteous and sad eyes.

"So," he pressed his lips together. "You've found out about Andale's secret."

"Stay back," Lyra gritted her teeth.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he stood his ground and displayed his empty palms. "I've given up that life already."

Lyra spared Veldoran a glance, a question in her eyes.

"He speaks the truth," Veldoran did not avert his eyes from the old man.  
>Lyra lowered her pistol, and the old man walked over, his gait lousy with arthritis.<p>

"I'm Harris," he spoke softly. "I presume you've already met my children."

"Children?" Lyra asked.

"Willy, Martha, Jack and Linda," he replied matter-of-factly. "They are all my children."

"Wouldn't that make…" Lyra swallowed hard.

"Yes, Jenny Wilson and Jack Smith Junior," Harris nodded. "My grandchildren, borne of incestuous relationships."

Lyra bit her lower lips in agitated thought.

"Two of your children are dead," Veldoran said. "We had to end their lives to ensure our safety."

"I killed them," Lyra corrected. There was nothing in her tone which suggested she had been proud of that deed. "And if what you say is correct, I'll… have to finish what I've started."

Harris' eyes filled with tears. "I can't stop you. I-I… know what they're doing is wrong."

"I'm sorry," Lyra closed her eyes, tears trickling out from the corners of her eyes. "I never wanted this."

"I know," Harris sighed.

There was a moment of silence, as both of them reflected on their choices. Finally, Veldoran broke the silence. "You must finish it, now."

Lyra said nothing as she handed her backpack to Veldoran and slipped into the Smiths' front door quietly. It was not long before she emerged again, her face tight with sorrow.

"It's done," she murmured. "What now?"

"Life goes on," Harris said. "I've not much longer to live, but I'll be around to take care of my grandkids. And this time, I'm doing things right."

They spent the night in Harris' home, and come morning, the bodies were gone. Harris and Veldoran buried the dead wastelanders and the four cannibals, making sure to remove any trace of their existence.

They left early in the morning at Lyra's behest. Even without his abilities, Veldoran knew it was because she could not face those children after what she had done.

Before they left, Lyra promised to return every so often to check on the children. Harris was grateful for it, knowing that it was a matter of time before he passed on. It was then that the bleakness of humanity's existence struck him. Despite the horrors they faced, despite their inferiority to other races in the grand scheme of the universe, always found the courage and the will to fight on. If there was one thing that Veldoran could respect humanity for, this would be it. A pity that such worthiness would be wasted, millennia from now.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry about the delay. Had to get my exams out of the way.

Chapter 9

Protector Roger Sandoval stood upon a rock, his armour painted a dim yellow and grey to match the scenery around them. It had been about three weeks since they had started investigated Megaton and the reports of advanced technology. Most of the people there had been tight-lipped and wary of the Outcast agents, being entirely new in town. All they said was, "Ask the sheriff, I don't know anything about that."

The local sheriff, one Lucas Simms, was not forthcoming with any information. He had a feeling that the man knew something about the strange occurrences, but was under some sort of obligation, maybe even his own, to keep mum about it. To be honest, Sandoval was tempted to bring him in for an interrogation session, but he knew it would impede further efforts in achieving their goals.

They had kept up surveillance, noticing a few travelers leaving and entering the town. Most of them were merchants from Canterbury Commons, but one particular couple stood out. A girl with a high-grade Sniper Rifle strapped to her back, and a strange, elegant-looking man in a tattered robe, likely purchased from the town's local store. That had been two days ago. He had seen many people in strange dress, most of them adventurers or prospectors or scavengers. Lyons had many interests running that did business with these people, something which Sandoval and Casdin had never agreed with. They were weak, inferiors who did not understand the true value of technology in this bleak, war-torn world.

"Protector," he heard Jenkin's voice through the comm system installed in his helmet. "Thorvaldsen has procured an informant, and requests permission to bring him to you."

Finally, a breakthrough.

"By all means," Sandoval replied with a grim smile.

His people spotted the man as soon as he walked out the gate. Specialist Thorvaldsen was accompanying the man, his hand carefully near his laser pistol in case of any tricks. That was his standard procedure for dealing with scum like these.

Finally, they climbed the rocky hill which he stood atop of, and his men bound the informant's hands tightly, sitting him down on a rock near to Sandoval. Of course, he protested the treatment, but stopped as soon as Sandoval assured him it was merely a precaution and reminded him that he would be paid handsomely for his time. By the look his dress, he was obviously a guard of some sort. The combat armour he wore was battered, but well-maintained, as was the side-arm that Thorvaldsen relieved him of.

"So, how may I address you?" Sandoval asked, his voice made tinny and muffled through the helmet speakers.

"They call me Kale," he replied. "I'm a guard."

Sandoval forced some lightness into his tone. "My friend here tells me you know something about the Raider attack that happened here about three weeks ago."

"Yeah," Kale nodded. "I overheard the Sheriff talking to the Lyra girl, something about her tall friend having some psychic mojo that tricked the Raiders into believing an army was there."

"Tall friend?" Sandoval raised an eyebrow (which was covered by his helmet, nonetheless). "A psychic?"

"Uh huh, handsome-looking fellow. He wears some sort of helmet and armour sometimes. Nothing like yours. Come to think of it, nothing like what I've ever seen before."

Sandoval paused for a moment, ignoring the sinking feeling he had. He walked closer to Kale and crouched, staring at him through the visor of his helmet. He knew the effect it had on the locals in terms of the intimidation value.

"How about this… Lyra?" he prodded. "Tell me about her."

"Ha… she's easy on the eyes, that's for sure," Kale said. "With an aim as good as her looks."

Jenkins stiffened. Sandoval knew what he was thinking.

"Is she still in town?" Sandoval asked.

"No, she left with her friend about two days ago," Kale shook his head. "Said something about finding her father at the Galaxy News Radio building."

"Was she carrying a sniper rifle when she left?" he continued.

"Yeah, she was," Kale replied dutifully.

Sandoval paused to consider his words for a moment, before motioning to Jenkins to pack up. Jenkins nodded and relayed the order through his helmet comm, and at once, the entire party responded, moving out of their designated spots back to their temporary camp on top of the hill.

"Well, thank you Mr. Kale," Sandoval nodded. Jenkins moved to untie the man, but Sandoval stopped him with a pointed finger. "However, I can have no witnesses to our presence here."

"W-What?" Kale started to panic. "But I've told you what you wanted to know! I won't tell anyone about you guys, I swear!"

"Nothing personal," Sandoval replied, standing up. "But considering the ease of which we managed to get you to talk, you'd be wagging your tongue as soon as you got back to Megaton."

Swiftly he drew his side-arm, a new plasma pistol out of the Outcasts' armoury, and shot Kale in the chest, reducing him into a pile of glowing green goo.

Jenkins stared at Sandoval, appalled. "Was there really a need to do that, sir?"

"He would have compromised mission security, Jenkins," Sandoval replied curtly. "And besides, we're already low on resources as it is. I'm not about to spend caps on something I can take for free."

"Yessir, I understand," Jenkins replied unhappily. "We're ready to move out now."

"Good," Sandoval returned gruffly. "Let's see if we can beat them to the DC ruins."

***

_Meanwhile…_

Tenpenny Tower was a strange sight, considering that the tallest thing they had seen in the capital wasteland was the crumbling highways all over the Capital Wasteland. Despite the dilapidated paintjob, it was obviously well maintained and well-patrolled at that.

"How are we gonna get in?" Lyra murmured as she surveyed the entrance with her binoculars.

At the entrance, of all things, was a ghoul clad in leather armour, who seemed to be speaking into an intercom next to the gate. Soon after, he walked off into the wastes, heading toward some sort of train yard in the distance.

Veldoran had seen a creature of a similar sort in the bar at Megaton by the name of Gob. Despite his abhorrent appearance, he seemed like a genuinely nice person, much like Lyra was.

He knew that Gob was very much interested in two females, one being the local prostitute by the name of Nova, as well as Lyra herself, who was one of the few travelers who was actually nice to him despite his looks. Still, the ghoul was well aware of his own drawbacks, and merely show-cased his affection with his big smile (though it did make him look even uglier) and bright demeanour.

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, he examined the gate as well. It was too high to climb, and the gate was too well-defended to fight through without significant risk to the both of them. Even Lyra's excellent marksmanship was useless, considering that there was no way to shoot into the walled compound itself. Still, there was always a way in, and it did not always require violence.

"Perhaps we should… ask for permission to proceed within," Veldoran suggested.

Lyra stared at him.

"If we are unable to convince them through conversation, there is always the option of forcing them to believe what we wish for them to believe," he tapped his forehead with the barest of smiles.

As they walked out of cover, Veldoran donned his helmet and took away Lyra's sniper rifle and armour, placing them carefully within his pack before binding her wrists with some rope (With an emergency slip-knot just in case). Picking up on his idea, Lyra loosened her clothing to show more skin, something which had worked when she needed to convince a childhood nemesis of hers to leave her best friend alone.

"Be silent from here on out and act the role of a captive," Veldoran replied. "If I require prompting, I will draw direction from your mind."

As they drew closer to Tenpenny Tower, Veldoran noted that they were being watched from the very pinnacle of the building itself. Still, there was no hint of danger sense, so he assumed that their disguise was good enough to facilitate entry.

"I am here to collect on a bounty," Veldoran spoke into the intercom. "I was told this was the place to bring her."

"Good," a male voice emerged from the intercom grille. "I'm unlocking the gate."

The gate swung open, and Veldoran led the way within, stopping to speak to the guard captain who stood at the sandbag-delineated guard-post.

"Greetings," he said, ignoring the hungry stares of the various men at his 'captive'. "I wish to see Mr. Tenpenny."

"Oh, you can just leave her here," the guard captain replied, placing a callused hand on the swell of her right buttock and giving it a mild squeeze. "We'll send her up to Mr. Tenpenny-"

With amazing speed, Veldoran drew his witchblade, slapping his hand away with the flat of his blade. "She is my prize, and she will stay that way until I am paid."

The captain stared at the ornate blade in awe as the guards around him stiffened and aimed their weapons at the Warlock. "She has killed twenty Raiders in a single skirmish. Would you like to try the man who managed to capture her alive?"

"This little girl? Twenty Raiders?" the Guard Captain snorted. "You're lying."

"Try me," he growled, his witchblade's tip pointed squarely at the Guard Captain's face.

The Guard Captain frowned, then burst out in a fit of laughter. "I like your style. Fine, take the lift to the penthouse. I can get a piece of that ass later after Tenpenny's done with her, I guess."

He gave Lyra an appreciative leer that made her shiver, but kept his hands to himself. Veldoran nodded and sheathed his witchblade, before making for the door.

The interior of the building was tastefully furnished, with marble tiling and even some wooden fixtures that looked as if they were brand-new.

Obviously, whoever who renovated this place had spared no expense. In the center of the two-storey promenade around them was a large counter with an elderly lady manning it. She looked somewhat startled and intimidated at Veldoran's appearance, but managed a smile nonetheless.

"Good day," she greeted him warmly. "How may I help you?"

"I am here to see Mr. Tenpenny," he repeated his statement, somewhat annoyed.

The elderly lady pointed at a pair of metal doors right behind her. "Take the elevator up to the penthouse, and turn right. A guard will be there to let you in, sir."

It was a smooth ride to the top, where a bored guard let them in without much interference, not even bothering to look up from his copy of Guns and Bullets. "Yeah, just go in, Mr. Tenpenny is waiting for you at the balcony."  
>Once inside his private rooms, she freed herself with a quick pull of the slip knot, before reaching into Veldoran's backpack and withdrawing her pistol. With practiced finesse, she attached the silencer onto the muzzle and nodded to Veldoran.<p>

Quietly, he opened the door which presumably led toward the balcony, as Lyra followed behind, her pistol in hand.

As they strode in, they saw an elegantly dressed old man, sitting on a pre-war couch and sipping tea sedately. Next to him was a sniper rifle of the same make as the one Lyra carried, albeit newer and shinier.

The old man looked up at them, and then at the muzzle of the pistol trained directly at his head.

"I hear you've been looking for me," Lyra grinned.

Despite the fact that she had a gun trained at him, Tenpenny's expression was that of mere annoyance. "And who might you be?"

"I'm the one you're hunting, you fool," Lyra hissed. "I've had to deal with your assassins several times already."

"Oh, really? I normally defer to Mr. Burke on who to deal with people like you," he said dismissively. "Talk to him if you must."

Lyra was nonplussed. This man sounded more spoilt than any child she had ever met, and he was not even a child to begin with. Irritated, she fired a warning shot next to his head. "Take me seriously, you stupid old jerk."

"I am," he replied matter-of-factly, not intimidated in the slightest. "So what do you want?"

"I want you to call off your assassins," she replied, glaring at him. "I've done nothing wrong."

"You are responsible for that eyesore still being present on the horizon," he pointed off into the distance at a dark metal shape on the horizon. She spared it a glance, realizing that it was Megaton. "So, the answer is no."  
>"Why do you want to destroy Megaton?" she demanded. "What did they do to you?"<p>

"It ruins my view," he clarified petulantly. "As I said, it is an blemish on an otherwise perfect panorama."

Lyra narrowed her eyes in incredulity. "What? Just because of that? Stop playing around!"

"He is not joking," Veldoran added in monotone, clearly riffling through Tenpenny's mind. "He commissioned Burke to detonate the atomic weapon in Megaton, just for that purpose."

"You… sick bastard," she hissed, shaking her head.

"My life is perfect except for that," he replied, in the same matter-of-fact tone which she found impossibly infuriating. "If I can spend the money to get rid of it, why not?"

"He has informed the guards," Veldoran growled, pointing at a small indentation on Tenpenny's chair-arm. "We should finish our business and leave soon."

As soon as he finished his sentence, he drew his witchblade. The balcony door swung open, revealing the guard who had been sitting outside of Tenpenny's suite. The Warlock stabbed him almost casually, and the guard screamed as his body immolated and turned to ash. The sight of that jolted Tenpenny out of his blasé façade.

"W-what are you?" he stared at Veldoran, his old withered hands trembling with fear. "Don't come near me!"

"We should kill him and be done with it," Veldoran pointed out as he sheathed his blade once again. "If he dies, he cannot pay the mercenaries that were sent to kill you. They shall then have no cause to continue hunting you."

She raised her pistol, ignoring the old man's whimpering, but Veldoran held up a hand. "We should make his death an example to others."

Without any further explanation, he lifted the old man up by the neck, eliciting choked gasps and gurgles as he did so. Tenpenny tried kicking him in the stomach, also clawing and scratching at the gauntleted hand around his neck. Still, it was an exercise in futility. As his feet cleared the balcony, Lyra noted a sharp stink as Tenpenny emptied his bowels in fright.

"N-no… please…" he gasped.

"You would have slaughtered an entire town to satisfy your own selfish whims, human," Veldoran replied harshly. "And just as you would have condemned them, I condemn you to death."

With a rough heft of his arm, he threw Tenpenny down. His body seemed to float for a moment, twirling lazily in the air at the immense kinetic force. A scream issued forth from Tenpenny as he dropped, a scream which continued for a while before ending in a strange, metallic sounding _'schck!'_.

"We should leave," Veldoran pronounced, turning away from the balcony edge coolly. "The guards are undoubtedly aware of Tenpenny's demise."  
>Lyra nodded, donning her armour. It was going to be tough getting out, especially with all the guards at the gate.<p>

"They will be looking for us, their minds steeled against distraction," Veldoran said as they entered the penthouse lift. "My mind-tricks will aid us to some extent, but it would be folly to rely on them alone."

Lyra pressed her lips together in tension. "I have a feeling that they'll be down there waiting for us…"

"They are," Veldoran replied. "That much is certain."

Pondering for a moment, she looked up at the lift's ceiling, where a small hatch allowed maintenance access to the top of the lift.

_"I have an idea…"_

***  
>Gustavo, captain of Tenpenny's guards, had placed the majority of his guards at the base of the elevator as soon as he realized Tenpenny was dead. There was only one way in and out of the penthouse, and he had already established the assailants were on the lift already, considering the fact that the lift was on the way down.<p>

"Men, get ready," he ordered as the lift bell rang once, a clear and loud _ding!_.

The doors slid open smoothly, revealing an empty lift.

"What the-" a few of the guards exclaimed, their guns still trained forward.  
>Before Gustavo could say anything else, three objects flew out of the lift and landed near their feet with dull, metallic clinks. It quickly became quite clear that the three objects at their feet were two grenades, and one flashbang.<br>"Fuck, take cover!" he howled, but it was too little, too late.  
>The grenades exploded, riddling their bodies with bits of metallic shrapnel and ball-bearings. Those who did not immediately die were blinded by the flash grenade. Out of a corner of his bloodied and darkening vision, he saw a torso hanging upside down from the maintenance hatch of the lift, hands clutched tightly around a pistol, picking off the remainder of his men who still survived.<br>It was the girl.  
>Gustavo died soon after, cursing the fact that he had underestimated her.<p>

Teeth clenched into a grimace, Lyra finished off the rest of the surviving guards, before raising herself up and dropping down into the lift. Veldoran followed suit gracefully, his witchblade out and ready.

"There are none left to challenge us here," he pronounced, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Two still remain, outside."

As the two of them walked out of the lift into the ruined center of the promenade, Lyra caught sight of several of the Tower's residents looking fearfully at them, some of them murmuring and pointing as they walked past.  
>One of the guards, bleeding out the remainder of his life on the floor, groaned softly. Veldoran silenced him quickly with a stab of his blade. His gasp was almost a sigh of relief as he died.<p>

Outside, Lyra found out the reason for the strange sound after Tenpenny's scream. The old man's corpse hung limply on the gate, impaled through the torso by the wrought iron gate's spiked top. Blood dripped down the shiny black surface, painting it a rich shade of red before pooling onto the dusty ground. The remaining two guards were still looking in horror at Tenpenny's body when Lyra placed a bullet in the back of their heads.

"Efficient," Veldoran complimented her as she walked forward and hit the gate control. The gate swung open, Tenpenny's body lolling in a morbidly amusing fashion.

She spared him a brief, tired smile. "I'm just glad it's over."

***

_A little later…_

Burke returned to Tenpenny Tower to find the gate a horrific mess. Tenpenny's lifeless eyes seemed to stare in mute accusation at him, reminding him incessantly of his failures. He was revolted, but quite a bit relieved that Tenpenny would not have the opportunity to chide him any longer. As he entered the lobby, he was greeted by the sight of a massacre.  
>Three black marks, one with a smoking flash-grenade husk in the middle, told him how they had died. Apparently, they had been standing in front of the penthouse lift when the grenades exploded.<p>

He wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of death that permeated the entire promenade, but showed no emotion other than slight annoyance.

"Mr. Burke! Thank goodness you've returned!" he heard a familiar voice. It was that of Tenpenny Tower's 'community bicycle', a young woman by the name of Susan Lancaster. He had already had the pleasure of 'making her acquaintance', as it were, but found her overly talkative for his liking. "Mr. Tenpenny is dead, and Chairman Cheng has taken ownership of the Tower!"  
>"What happened?" he asked her calmly as if he were speaking to her over lunch, instead of standing in a lobby filled with dead bodies.<p>

"Two strangers murdered Mr. Tenpenny, and killed all the guards before escaping!" she replied almost theatrically.

"Hush, my dear Susan," he placed a leather-gloved hand on her bare shoulder, knowing the effect it had on her. She calmed a bit, a look of petulant annoyance in her eyes. "Can you tell me what they looked like?"

"A man in strange armour, and a young woman in makeshift combat-dress," she replied dutifully. "At first, I thought she was his prisoner, and he had come to collect some sort of bounty. They went up to the penthouse to see Mr. Tenpenny, and presumably murdered him. Chief Gustavo tried to stop them…"

She spared Gustavo's corpse a glance, before shuddering and looking away.  
>"I see," Burke replied. "Pardon me, Susan, I need to have a few words with Irving."<p>

She nodded and looked at him with coy, puppy-dog eyes. "Won't you accompany me later? This is all so very frightening, and I need a big strong man to take care of me."

Burke fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Perhaps."

She strode off, back to her room presumably, leaving Burke with his thoughts.

Damn. This was probably the same girl that he had hired the Talon Mercs to find. The same girl that the Raider Jericho had tried and failed to capture. The same girl who had disarmed the damned nuke in Megaton. If she had done all this, then she was more dangerous than he had ever thought possible.

As he pondered his options, Irving Cheng emerged from the penthouse elevator, looking immensely pleased with himself. He ignored the bodies on the floor as he strode forward to speak to Burke.

"Mr. Burke, the Tower is under new management," Cheng said, eyes twinkling. "As you know, Mr. Tenpenny has died, and as the next most prominent resident of Tenpenny Tower, I have assumed control."

"Assumed control? Irving, you have no authority over me, nor anyone in this Tower. And neither have you the means to enforce your rule," Burke adjusted his fedora idly. "Your ideal of a communist enclave, to be honest, offends my sensibilities."

The old man opened and closed his mouth several times, taken aback. "W-why… how dare you! I ought to-"

"To do what?" Burke snorted. "I was Tenpenny's right hand man. And I am far more capable of running this place than an old has-been like you."  
>With that, he drew his pistol and shot Cheng in the head, and he was dead even before his body hit the floor, falling upon Gustavo's body in a macabre parody of an embrace.<p>

Blowing away the wisp of smoke emerging from the barrel, Burke smiled. He owned Tenpenny Tower now, and it was time to do things his way…


	10. Chapter 10

"How can you even be sure that what this Mon-keigh is saying is even true?" Tarashe demanded. Macha grimaced, but she already knew that this response was to come. "Even in death, he may still serve their Corpse-God!"

Draco's apparition turned to face the Warlock. "My entire existence is the Webway, Warlock. I stand to gain nothing from trickery. My time as a servant of the Golden Throne is long past."

"So you say," he growled.

"Enough, Warlock," Macha raised a slender hand in reprimand. "Inquisitor Draco has given me my word, and that is enough for me. To speak any further would be to dishonour me and Craftworld Biel-Tan."

Tarashe fell sullenly silent.

"My goal is to help you, kindred of Ulthwe," Macha continued, her voice softening. "I will use any means at my disposal to aid you in finding your lost leader."

Tarashe nodded silently. There would be no use in pursuing this matter further.

"For what it's worth," Draco inclined his head with a small, subdued smile upon his ghostly features. "I apologize for the actions of my zealous kindred."

Macha's red lips pulled back from her pearlescent teeth into a wide smile. "Always the diplomat."

"In any case, I have memorized the route to the portion of the Webway you seek," Draco said, his eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, before looking up again. "I can guide you from Biel-Tan itself any time you wish."

"Very well," Tarashe pronounced. "We shall set off in the morning. My companions are weary from the long journey, and I believe we will all benefit from clear minds on our journey."

"Make no mistake, Warlock," Draco cautioned. "The route we must follow is long and dangerous. There is a chance that none of you will return from this journey. You must understand this before you commit yourselves to your task."

"I am not one to tarry with words, human," Tarashe retorted. "Warlock Veldoran is the future of Ulthwe. We must do all we can to return him to the Craftworld, even if it means our deaths."

There were murmurs of assent from the gathered Eldar of Ulthwe, including the Harlequins, who nodded vigorously.

"It is settled, then," Macha nodded once more to Draco, who disappeared once more into the recesses of the Webway. "Rest well while you can, my kin. Reaching Biel-Tan was but the first step in a long journey. Some parts of which is hidden even from my sight."

Tarashe inclined his helmet in gratitude. As his entourage left the Dome of Seers, he uttered a short prayer to Isha to vouchsafe their mission. He hoped that it would be enough.

***

It was evening in the downtown DC ruins, by the time the Outcast recon group reached the tunnel which allowed access to the bulk of the ruins themselves. Unsurprisingly, the lack of maintenance had allowed many cave-ins to occur, obscuring direct paths and forcing them to use an insanely circuitous route that left everyone, especially Sandoval himself, irritable and edgy.

The cave-ins proved to be the least of their problems, as the tunnels were infested with all manner of wasteland wildlife, including ghouls and Raiders, who were no match for the Outcasts in their powered armour. Still, the last skirmish had slowed them down some, with Jenkins taking a hit to his thigh, which the team medic had to spend around half-an-hour to patch up. In the end, they had decided to hole up in one of the tunnel's many maintenance rooms to rest and take stock of their supplies.

Sandoval looked about his makeshift camp with irritation. It had become clear to him that their informant might have been wrong with his information, and his team was now paying the price for it. Every single thing seemed to be going wrong, first with the immense detouring, then Jenkins' wound, and now the fact that they might be on a wild goose chase. Sandoval felt a fool, but he knew that it would be extremely detrimental to morale if he were to say it out loud.

Striding briskly over to Jenkins' and sitting down next to him, he sighed. Jenkins seemed somewhat uncomfortable at the attention, and did nothing other than a politely nod and smile.

"I don't bite, Jenkins," Sandoval noted the discomfort bluntly.

"You don't, sir," he agreed. "But… permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted," Sandoval raised an eyebrow.

"Shooting the wastelander at Megaton, sir," Jenkins began gingerly. "Did you really have to do it? I mean, sir, we got the information we wanted. Even if Kale went on to tell the sheriff, what could they have done about it?"

Sandoval fought the urge to roll his eyes. "We've been over this. I told you that it would jeopardize the safety of our team, Paul."

Jenkins was startled at the sudden use of his first name. Sandoval had rarely called him by his first name, typically only by his surname and occasionally by his designation… It made him truly sit up and listen.

"What you have to understand is that I only care about two things. My men, and our overall mission, and in that order, you understand?" Sandoval's nostrils flared. "And I'll be damned if I'm about to leave any loose ends when it comes down to ensuring the safety of my men. It's better not to have any surprises when it comes to crunch time."

"Even at the cost of innocent life?" Jenkins protested weakly. "I mean, there could have been other ways to shut him up for good besides killing him."

"Name me two," he narrowed his eyes. Jenkins wilted a little under the glare.

"I… I can't think of one right now," he stammered. "But it seems amoral just to kill in cold blood."

With a quick yank of his right hand, he ripped off his left glove, showing his badly scarred hand, and his comparatively clean palm with a single, white scar cut along the fold of his palm. "You see this scar over here? All the Protectors have this mark. We swore on our blood that we would not repeat the mistakes that Lyons made. We swore to stay true to the original tenets of the Brotherhood of Steel, and continue in the original mission assigned to us by the Elders. I am not about to violate an oath made in blood just because of some moral obligation to others who would likely not return the favour if we did them a kindness."

Jenkins said nothing, lips pressed firmly together.

"We are Outcasts for a reason. We will continue to be Outcasts until the Elders decided to intervene," Sandoval pulled the glove on again, clenching and releasing several times to make sure it was fit snugly upon his hand. "We protect our own, and I would have you remember that. If I fall in battle, you will have to take command. There will be hard decisions, and I trust that you will make the right choices."

Jenkins nodded his blonde head, before pulling up his haversack and placing his head on it. "If you'll excuse me sir, I'm gonna get some shut-eye while I can."

Sandoval smiled humourlessly. "Yeah, do that. I'll get Friedman to check on you later."

He strode out of the room to the adjoining tunnel outside, where two of his subordinates awaited. They nodded briskly, before turning back to their watch duties. Sandoval had offered to command the first watch while the rest slept, and so he pulled up a rotting wooden box and sat on it, feeling it creak slightly under his weight. It was going to be a long night.

Slowly, his subordinates began to loosen up, chatting idly about mundane topics, not the least of which was their medic, Jana Friedman. One of the three women in the ten-person section that Sandoval led, she was also the most attractive, which wasn't saying much considering the other two behaved like men (despite being heterosexual). Of course, their tomboyish behaviour did not endear them much to the rest of the men. Jana was the one with the bedside manner of a true doctor, and had the dexterity of a surgeon (Which she was also trained in, actually), so it was a hands down choice who was to be medic.

Personally, Sandoval did find her attractive, but the fact that he was her commanding officer made it problematic to pursue any sort of romantic relationship with her. She did know of his interest, and welcomed it, but it was to keep their relationship purely professional in nature until a time when they could pursue one safely.

He sighed. It worried him that the West Coast Elders had been silent for so long. It did not bode well that Lyons would be able to go on unchecked in his unsanctioned actions for so long. It made no sense for them to utterly cut off contact to the Capital Wasteland's Brotherhood expedition.

The two guards grew quiet as the object of their discussions emerged from their makeshift campsite. Friedman gave Sandoval a small smile, which Sandoval nodded and returned.

"Something's bothering you," she said as she sat down next to him, voice pitched only for him to hear. "I can see it in your eyes."

"It's nothing, Jana," he replied, trying to wave it off. "Command decisions, that's all."

She giggled a little. "You're a bad liar, Roger."

Sandoval chuckled, a rare occurrence. "Can't hide anything from you, as usual."

Friedman's smile turned coquettish. "No one knows you like I do."  
>He paused, smile fading from his face. "Jenkins called me out on some of my decisions recently."<p>

"That's normal, isn't it?" she blinked. "If your second in command doesn't speak his mind, he isn't worth the rank, is he?"

"He's not ready, Jana," Sandoval picked up a small piece of brick from the ground and threw it idly at one of the flaming barrels that illuminated the area. It arced through the air and entered squarely into the mouth of the barrel, landing with a muffled 'thunk!'. "I've made a lot of decisions that could have been construed as inhumane or evil, that's true. But the thing is, I did it because the Brotherhood comes first. Paul doesn't understand that."  
>Friedman was quiet, her canniness and medical training served her well in her role as the group's official counsellor. That look of keen attention, warm support. It made him feel human again.<p>

"He's starting to think like one of Lyons' bunch. Caring for every little wastelander that we come across. Thinking that we should play hero to the lot of them," he continued, picking up a rusty tin can this time. He managed to get it into the barrel again. "We're not humanitarian workers. We're here to do our jobs, and that does not entail holding hands and helping your fellow man. We are soldiers, first and foremost."

She nodded. "Go on."

"I'm worried he might run off to join Lyons', to be honest. And I'll be stuck training a new first officer," he sighed. "Three years he spent as my second-in-command. Three years and he's still as naive as the day he walked in. And because of that, three years of my blood and sweat'll go down the drain."  
>"You don't know that, Roger," Friedman picked up a can and threw it as well - her aim was just as good as Sandoval's. "Paul's young and impressionable, but he has nothing but the utmost respect for you. Give him time."<p>

"We don't have time, Jana. It's been years since we've heard from the West Coast, and our numbers are dwindling, slowly but surely," he ran a gloved hand over his face tiredly. "First O'Malley and Dunlop, then Linden goes MIA after a skirmish. We're dying out, Jana. There might not be any of us left when the West Coast people show up again."

"You heap too much responsibility on yourself," she shook her head. "It's going to get you killed, one day."

"We're all gonna die one day," he replied, looking her in the eye. She gazed back steadily, and Sandoval found himself lost in those crystal-blue eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

She leaned in close, and he knew she wanted to give him a kiss, but it would not do in front of his subordinates.

"Not now, Jana," he whispered, one hand on her shoulder. "We talked about this."

There was disappointment in her eyes, but she said nothing more.

"If that's all, Medic Friedman," he averted his gaze. "You should get some rest while you can."

"Yes, Protector Sandoval," she replied quietly before entering the maintenance rooms again.

The guards were respectfully silent until the younger one deigned to speak up. "Sir. I'm sorry that I have to say this... But you're an idiot."

"Shut up, Williams," Sandoval allowed himself a rueful smile that he disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

It was fast approaching night as Veldoran and Lyra trudged back toward Megaton. The stress of their journey and the subsequent violence had taken a toll on the both of them, especially Lyra, whose face was pale and tired. Sweat dripped from her bangs, turning her hair into carved ebony in places where it accumulated. Veldoran was as stoic as always, bearing his own share of the load with indifference. He had withstood worse in his three hundred years. Much worse.

The sky was a light blue tinged with yellow, from the sunlight reflecting off what clouds there were in the sky. She would have made a comment about its beauty if not for the fact that she was too tired to even say anything.

Though her vault-issue boots were ideal for long travel, it had not taken long for blisters to form under her toes, ankles and the front of her foot. Every step was agony in its own right, but still they drove on, intent on reaching Megaton before nightfall. Veldoran, in comparison, seemed to move effortlessly in the roughest of ground, sometimes balancing on one foot when it came to crossing stony areas. He was quick and light, even with his impressive armour on. Lyra felt a little envious at his grace, but knew that it was not something that was taught, but something that all Eldar were innately born with. The grace and speed with which he traversed the distance was nothing short of inspirational. It did help her along somewhat, and she sensed Veldoran's active effort in helping her along by numbing the constant pain in her feet.

They had bumped into few of the wasteland denizens along the way, but it was nothing that they could not take care of. The few bloatflies and molerats were quickly dealt with, often by a stab of Veldoran's witchblade or a shot from Lyra's well-worn pistol.

"I want a bath," Lyra sighed, taking yet another step over a well-worn rock. "I'll die if I don't get one."

Veldoran lifted an eyebrow, amused.

"You're so boring, sometimes, you know that?" she complained, narrowing her eyes in mock irritation. "It's been two hours since you said anything, and all you were doing was warning me about that giant mole-rat."

"Do humans always waste time on pointless words and small talk?" he asked, as they turned into a small ravine.

"Yes," she replied. "We do. We really suck. So sue me."

"Fine," Veldoran returned. "What do you wish to speak of?"

"I dunno," Lyra shrugged tiredly, before cursing at having to climb out of the ravine. "Jeez, that's like the fourth time today!"

Veldoran ascended the ravine wall with deft grace, jumping from stone to stone easily. Once up, he offered a hand to Lyra, who glowered at him despite the gesture.

Pulling her up, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. She did not attempt to engage him in conversation, but he sensed the growing disquiet in her mind about the recent spate of killings she had been subjected to. Especially those she had performed by her hand.

"Killing is a reality you have to accept," he said suddenly, jolting her out of her reverie. She looked somewhat irritated at the sudden-ness of his advice, but said nothing of it. "Death will seek you out in one form or another, whether you seek it or not."

She pressed her lips and looked down, still trudging forward. "I don't like to kill, Vel. But I keep running into situations where I have to do it. It's becoming easier to pull the trigger, and I don't like it."

"It is no shame to learn how to kill," he pronounced, placing a hand unconsciously upon the pommel of his witchblade. "_**If**_ you learn to kill for the good of your people."

"My father… He taught me that I should treasure all life, no matter its source," she looked at him, and he was struck by the earnestness in her eyes. "That all life is sacred."

Touched and somewhat amused by her naiveté, he gave her a small, thin smile. Very few things had made him smile outside of childhood and adolescence, but the fact that he was listening to a human say these words was somewhat jarring and ironic, considering the near-psychotic zeal of humanity in his native time. Once again, he was struck by the truly sad fact that humanity would transition from such a moderate mindset to that of utter zealotry.

"My father truly believed in it," she continued. "Not surprising, considering the fact he used to be a doctor."

"You speak as if he is dead," Veldoran observed. "Why is that?"

"He might be," she replied sadly. "I have no other news of him other than what we plucked from Moriarty's head. And from all accounts, the capital city ruins are an extremely dangerous place."

"We will find him," he replied firmly. "Regardless of whether he lives or dies. I have seen as much from the casting of the runes."

He patted the satchel on his belt.

"You've already done that?" she looked at him with wonderment.

"Yes, but I can see no further from the fact that we will find him. There will be many who will block our path, some friend and some foe. The road will be difficult and fraught with lies and deceit," his eyes glazed over as he recalled the formation of symbols within his mind. "And I fear that my arrival may only serve to complicate matters further."

***  
>Colonel Augustus Autumn stood in the main command hub of Raven Rock, his brow furrowed in thought. It had been some time since he had ordered increased surveillance on the Brotherhood of Steel and their Outcast brethren, and the results had been most disturbing indeed. They were obviously searching for something, something big. Whatever it was, it had to do with technology, and Autumn had a strong feeling that it would have many implications for the future.<p>

The Enclave had always maintained a technological edge over the Brotherhood of Steel, considering that they actually possessed the industrial facilities to create and produce advanced technology like the powered armour and energy weapons that the Enclave was both known and feared for. What Autumn feared most of all was that whatever they were chasing, it could possibly bridge the technological gap, and shift the balance of power in the Capital Wasteland. Already several kill-teams of Enclave soldiers were scouring the Wasteland for signs of any Brotherhood or Outcast personnel, intent on interrogating and eliminating this nascent threat, but so far, the trail had gone cold. Intercepted communiqués were still in the process of being decoded by the Enclave's best cryptographers and cryptography software (Which also borrowed processing power from the supercomputer nestled within the bowels of the Raven Rock facility).

President Eden had been accommodating, as always, and work had been progressing at a steady rate for some time now. It was merely the waiting, the anticipation of things to come, that was driving him insane. Daily reports of minor skirmishes with both Outcast and Brotherhood personnel were piled on his desk, yielding little insight except for the location of their patrols, which happened to cluster around a settlement by the name of Megaton. So far, infiltration missions into the settlement had yielded little viable intelligence, considering the insular nature of the inhabitants, and their thinly veiled suspicions regarding outlanders.

"Colonel Autumn," a blonde-haired Enclave scientist by the name of Jerrold handed him a printout communiqué from one of their many patrols. "Another encounter. Near the capital ruins. They spotted Outcast personnel heading into one of the metro tunnels granting access to interior of the ruins. Agenda unknown."

He read the description given by the kill-team, of the overall leader of the Outcast troop detachment, and of the various equipment and personnel dispositions of his ragtag team. He knew this man from intelligence reports, one of the premier Outcast leaders by the name of Sandoval. By all accounts, he was a man of formidable combat prowess, having wiped out several Enclave patrol groups through judicious use of infantry tactics during his tenure as a Paladin in the Brotherhood. It was because of him that both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Outcasts had access to plasma weapons, a technology which had formerly been exclusive to the Enclave.

"D'you have orders for them, sir?" Jerrold asked, squinting through his glasses.

"Tell them to keep their distance," he said finally, handing the paper back to Jerrold. "This man is dangerous. Unless they have a deathwish, they should avoid engagement or detection at all costs."

"Yes sir," he replied, with a nod that nearly messed up his well-styled blonde hair. "I'll relay the orders at once."

If the Outcasts had sent their best man to do the job (short of their leader), there was something of significance that they did not wish to lose. It made no sense to waste such skill and manpower on a project that would not yield a decisive advantage. Also, intelligence reports gathered from other reconnaissance units had detailed that the Brotherhood of Steel's elite unit, a troop section named Lyons' Pride, was also in the downtown D.C. area. Their proximity was no coincidence. Definitely not.

It was all coming together, he knew. It made all the sense in the world, and he was in the perfect position to claim the prize.

If only he knew what it was.


	11. Chapter 11

It had been only a few hours since they had entered the Webway, and most of the Craftworlders were already feeling the effects of soul-draining the Webway had on every Eldar who used it. The Rillietann seemed fine, though, leading the way with uncommon energy. The apparition of the former Inquisitor walked ahead of them, a misty figure in the crackling blue energies of the unfathomably vast Webway.

"Are we… close yet?" Tarashe's voice was pained and tired. "I fear that we are reaching our limit for travel."

"Not yet," Draco replied, turning back. His features were aswirl with the energies of the Webway, distorting his apparition somewhat. "But we may rest if you need to do so."

"Please do," he nodded. At'lia, the Harlequins' leader, withdrew a small, ornate device from her satchel and pressed the azure gem that was inlaid into its center. Within seconds, a webway portal shimmered into existence and they stepped through it, though Draco stayed behind, unable to leave the Webway.

Slowly but surely, Tarashe felt the effects of the soul-drain ebb from his body. As the sharp blue glare of the Webway faded, he felt grass rustle underfoot and smelt the rich tang of an oxygen rich atmosphere.

Looking around, he took in the sights. Lush temperate vegetation grew around them, a rich mixture of greens and blues, while the sky was a normal blue, tinged with the yellow of a setting sun. Obviously, many of the plants here did not make extensive use of the usual chemicals required for photosynthesis, considering their strange pigmentation and orientation of leaves. Some of the larger plants reacted to their presence, though Tarashe sensed no sentient will within them. Extending tendrils to the newcomers, they seemed to be energized by their presence.

"These plants," At'lia caressed a tendril with a silken-gloved hand. "They react to psyker energy."

Intrigued, Tarashe materialized an orb of psionic energy in his gauntleted hand, feeling the flow and thrum of power throughout his body. The plantlife seemed to sense this as well, achieving a sort of resonance with the energy as it radiated toward them. His fascination turned to alarm as the tendrils grew closer and closer to them, and he drew his witchblade quickly, intent of slicing any that grew too close for comfort.

"They mean no harm," the Harlequin mistress chuckled melodiously. "They merely react to our presence as plants would to other forms of nourishment, like sunlight."

"I see," he sheathed his witchblade, but kept a suspicious eye on the plants nonetheless.

"It is nearly night," At'lia noted, looking up into the sky. "Perhaps we should make camp for now."

Tarashe nodded. "Yes, it would be best."

It did not take them long to actually contrive a shelter of some sort, as the tendrils were content to form small roofs over their heads in exchange for the psyker energy that each of the Eldar radiated. Tarashe himself had been trained in the manipulation of Wraithbone from his time as a Bonesinger, and it was with this skill that he was able to construct a decently shaped pavilion from the trees and vines growing around them.

As night grew closer, he heard the calls of the local wildlife. Birds and bigger animals teemed around them, their seeming unfamiliarity with the Eldar emboldening them. One particular felinoid-looking creature seemed to react to Tarashe's presence as his own Gyrinx would have, nuzzling his leg with its face. It did not mind at all when he reached down to stroke its finely furred back, which elicited a throaty purr from it.

"Odd," Tarashe looked at it quizzically. "It behaves as if it is domesticated."  
>At'lia nodded, her holomask flitting between its reserved smile to the toothy grin it usually favoured. "This world might be another Maiden World that has not been rediscovered by Eldar of any Craftworld, seeded by the Eldar in ages past."<p>

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the felinoid ran off, slipping through a small crevice between the tendrils that formed the pavilion. Soon after, it returned with a small, rodent-like creature in its mouth, which it placed at Tarashe's feet.

"The thought is appreciated," At'lia laughed. "But the gift is not."

It was not long before accommodation was contrived for his retinue. With a little experimentation, he was even able to form a decently sized bed, which he draped fabric over. For a moment, he realized that this sort of existence was exactly how the Exodites lived. It was a simple, sometimes difficult life, but going back to nature did have its distinct advantages and appeal.

As he closed his eyes, he heard the faint melody of At'lia's flute and the soft sound of singing from the assembled Harlequins as well as some of the Aspect Warriors. There was laughter and murmurs of praise – the sound of happy fellowship, and Tarashe could not think of any better way to drift off into sleep.

***

The sound of clashing swords and warfare burned through Lyra's mind. The screams of the dying, the howls of rage at the fallen, it thrummed through her mind like plainsong. Among distant flashes of light, she saw planets turned red and yellow in the glare of the Warp, thousands butchered by the murderous hordes of Chaos. She saw blanched corpses withering in the void, dead for thousands of years, but unable to rot because of the vacuum of space. Death, death was everywhere. In reality, in the Warp, in her mind as well. There was only War.

She saw the floating city of crystal in space once again, but this time, she knew what it was. Veldoran's home. The Craftworld of Ulthwe and its mighty fleet. The banner of Ulthwe was emblazoned across the side of the mighty city-ship, the weeping Eye of Isha. She saw its light shine bright against the backdrop of the Eye of Terror, a defiant bastion against the Great Enemy. She felt Veldoran's fierce pride at having served his Craftworld to the best of his ability, but the muted sorrow of never being able to go home again. Ulthwe, like a mountain, refusing to bow even to the horrific gale of the Great Enemy. The Damned, the other Craftworlds whispered of them. Veldoran knew better. They were all damned in one way or another. How could anyone resist the tantalizing ministrations of Chaos for so long, and yet survive with sanity and willpower intact? Only Ulthwe had stood the test of time and came forth the stronger.

She saw the ravening hordes of Humanity, their worship of the human psyker known as the God-Emperor, she saw the horror of their zeal, the atrocities they would commit upon one another, and upon those unlucky enough to cross their paths. Appropriately, their symbol was a skull, representing death for all those who crossed their path. Again, her mind took her to the Golden Throne, and the skeletal ruin that lay nestled within the gargantuan machinery, sustained by the souls of a uncountable human psykers. He stared at her with his horrifically empty eye sockets again, imploring her to understand, in a voice that no one could hear. A voice that echoed several thousand years into the future, but was doomed to be ignored by the zealous masses of humanity. His torment, she felt it gnawing at her mind even as she gazed across space and time at his withered visage.

"Stop…" she whispered at first, before it transitioned to a full-on scream. "STOP!"

There was the jarring transition of an improperly halted psychic rite. Frost encrusted the furniture around them, psychic rime from the ritual's drawing of energy from nearby sources.

"I apologize. The experience of a mental-exchange can be extremely unsettling for those who have not received the proper training," Veldoran looked up at her, his eyes appearing violet in the dim light.

"It wasn't the experience. It was… just what I saw," she ran a hand through her raven hair, breathing deeply and slowly as he had told her to. Her back was turned to him. "Is the future really going to be that horrible? I just can't believe it."

"We are often confronted with situations where it is difficult to accept what reality presents to us," he stood up as well, gazing gravely at her. "All we can do is learn to accept them and move on. To continue to delude oneself is the gravest mistake that one can make. That is the lesson we Eldar learned during the Fall. It may seem like a small thing, to ignore the future and to continue as you always have, but you do so often at the cost of others. My ancestors made a mistake, a mistake that their children pay for to this day. And will continue to for many, many generations."  
>She was silent.<p>

"You wished to know more about where I came from," he pointed out. "Do you regret me showing you the truth?"

"No," she shook her head. "I don't."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Lyra nodded and wished him good night. Tomorrow, their intended journey to the capital city ruins would begin. It would be thus that his debt to her would be fulfilled. He had originally intended to find a way to make a life for himself in the barren wastes, but now, the strand of his fate was tied inextricably to hers. He saw no end to their travels, nor to the troubles that seemed to constantly nip at their heels. For now, he would see where it would all lead to. Hopefully, it would one day be his chance to return home.

He left Lyra's house, clad in a light jumpsuit and armed with his witchblade. It had been a while since he had practiced Warlock swordplay, though he had spent a good amount of time in combat. The time spent fighting weaker opponents had left him sloppy and ill-focused. It always paid to be at full readiness at all times, even in the best of circumstances.

A few residents walked past as he practiced, stopping to watch but moving on in time. Jenny Stahl had come up to talk to him for a while, asking after his health and that of his companion Lyra. He answered as politely as he was able to while he exercised. It often struck him how easily humans trusted each other. Performing one charitable deed had netted him a decent reputation within the town, something which he felt was both amusing and fascinating at the same time. It all seemed so laughably optimistic, despite the dreary backdrop of a world ravaged by nuclear war.

She left him a bottle of purified water, an expensive gift in a world where irradiated water was a standard. As he gulped it down, he ignored the strong taste of plastic in his mouth. It was a handsome gift, despite its simplicity, and for that he was thankful. Thankfulness was hard to come by as it was. Every little bit helped.

He chuckled at his own thoughts. Spending too much time among them had made an optimist out of him. Just when you think you've seen everything…

They made good time to the outskirts of the DC ruins, passing by several raider encampments and bloatfly nests. Their light-footedness served them well, slipping past the encampments with the Raiders being none the wiser. Lyra had suggested taking them out, but Veldoran had flatly refused, citing the times when he had to bail her out of such "adventures".

"We will not engage those barbarian humans," he growled. "There shall be no more talk of 'practice', or 'making the world a better place'. It is pointless and costs us time and munitions."

Like a scolded child she sulked, grumbling under her breath. "I bought the ammo; you don't have to spend a single cent."

"If the battle becomes unmanageable, I will have to step in once again," he huffed. "This is not just about the currency you have spent on munitions."

"Jeez, you sound like a grumpy old man," she snorted in a very unladylike fashion, reslinging her rifle across her back. She had traded in the old one and begun to use Tenpenny's instead. Of course, some preliminary camouflage had been applied to ensure that the shine of the well-maintained weapon did not give her away during combat situations.

"I may be three hundred and sixty of your solar cycles, but I assure you, I am not old," he retorted, before adding hastily. "By Eldar standards."

She narrowed her eyes. "Three hundred and sixty? Jeez. And to think I was attracted to you. People would think I have had a fetish for wrinkly old men."  
>"Just how am I 'wrinkly'?" he sighed exasperatedly, eliciting peals of laughter from Lyra. He shook his head again and let out another sigh.<p>

Giving him a toothy grin, she checked her Pipboy. "The bridge should just be over this rise."

As they lifted themselves over the steep rise, they were treated to an excellent view of the bridge leading to the DC ruins, as well as the external ruins themselves. Even from this distance, they were able to spot signs of movement along the pavement adjoining the irradiated river. Through her binoculars, she saw that the moving dots were, in fact, giant humanoids with orange-hued skin. "Hmm. I think those are Super Mutants."

A slight click-whirr told her that Veldoran was doing the same through his mask, filtering out the afternoon glare and giving him an excellent close up. "They do fit the description of Super Mutants. I suggest caution, given their reputation of being formidable fighters, particularly in melee."

The bridge itself was devoid of life, and so, they inched closer to it, wary of any ambushes or wild animals seeking their demise.

As they strode briskly across the broken surface of the bridge's road, Lyra felt a distinct sense of unease descending upon her. Firstly, there was little to no cover if it came to a fire fight. Second, she had a strange feeling that they were very much unwelcome in the location they were now.

_"Watch where you're going, sweetie,"_ she heard a voice whisper in her right ear. She turned, but there was no one there. The voice was a woman's, warm and familiar, but for the life of her she could not match a face to that voice. She stopped dead in her tracks, looking around bewilderedly.

"What is it?" Veldoran asked. He had also stopped.

"Something's wrong," she said slowly. "We need to watch our step."

Veldoran was silent for a moment, while he considered it from a tactical viewpoint. The entire bridge was, in essence, a chokepoint. There did not seem to be any active fortifications, no emplacements nor bunkers of any sort. But why would anyone wish to fortify this position?

It struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. To keep the mutants in, or to keep humans out. It did not matter either way.

With a telekinetic burst, he scoured the bridge's surface with a force akin to that of a gale-force wind.

Bits of dust and rock were flung to a side, revealing fattened discs that lay in several indentations on the bridge's surface. There were several consistent beeping noises, which they interpreted correctly as the signal for imminent detonation.

"Get down!" Veldoran shouted, pushing her to the ground.

The mines exploded, showering them with bits of stone and gravel.

Thankfully, they had been underneath the shrapnel radius, which would have peppered them with ball-bearings and put enough holes in vital organs to kill instantly.

"Shit," she cursed. "That was too close."

"I concur," Veldoran replied, helping her up again. "We must be more cautious from now on."

It was tedious work, shuffling through the debris and making sure that they did not step on any undetonated mines. So far, she had found two, which she managed to evade by moving slowly over them. Veldoran had flung the nasty things over the bridge, where they detonated underwater with a subdued 'ploosh-foom!'.

The rest of the way across the bridge was relatively uneventful, the mines had only been laid near the beginning of the bridge anyway.

As they crept carefully down the road down the bridge, they spotted several armoured men looking nervously at them, weapons at the ready. They seemed tense and on edge, a given considering the fact that Super Mutants were about. When she walked up to them, rifle still slung, they relaxed visibly. Their leader, a man in faded denim pants and shirt with a leather jacket, looked her over with the eye of a merchant. She knew that look, especially how it lingered around her backpack and pockets. It made a decent change to the other looks she had from men.

"Good day, miss," the leader smiled toothily, revealing tiny gaps where his teeth had fallen out. "My name's Wolfgang, Crazy Wolfgang."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Wolfgang, I'm Lyra," she replied politely, ignoring the lascivious leers from his guards. It seemed a nice change of pace that he was more interested in her wallet than in her chest. "Are you a trader of some sort?"

"Why, how perceptive of you," he replied cheerfully. "I am indeed a trader. I collect odds and ends that I find in my travels, and other more interesting items that people sell to me when they find themselves in need of money."

The trader spared Veldoran a glance as he strode up to Lyra's side, his hand placed squarely upon the pommel of his witchblade. He was staring at one of the guards, who was also looking intently at Lyra, and not in the typical way which most would expect.

"Any energy cells in that pack? Ammunition?" she asked. "Maybe stimpaks?"  
>"Yeah, I got a few," he unslung his pack, withdrawing a few small wooden boxes of ammunition. "Stimpaks are in short supply at the moment, but I'll be heading back to Canterbury Commons soon enough to replace em'."<p>

"How many can you part with?" she asked.

"Three," he replied. "I'll give you a good price for them too."

He quoted a figure, smaller than the usual price Moira tagged her items with.  
>She raised both eyebrows. "Does the discount extend to the ammo?"<p>

"Heck, why not," he replied. "I get good business from adventuring Wastelanders like yourself. Might be better off for me in the long run, too. Put a few more bullets into them Raiders, right?"

She shrugged and smiled. "We're going into the DC ruins, so it's more likely to be Super Mutants than Raiders."

Some of the Guards looked at each other and whistled in awe. Wolfgang's face fell somewhat. "You sure? Pretty girl like you got no business in that mutant hellhole."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "I may be female, but I can handle myself."

Wolfgang held both hands up in a placating gesture. "Whoa, I didn't mean nothin' by that. You look like you're well kitted for the job, but y'must know that the insides of the DC ruins are swarmin' with them muties. I heard tell about them feral ghouls too."

"We're still headed that way," Lyra said. "Thanks for the warning, though."

"I like my customers to be repeat customers, know what I'm sayin'?" he grinned good-naturedly. "Anyways, here's your ammo, and there's your caps, so we won't be holdin' you up any longer. Take care, y'hear?"

With a small smile on her face, Lyra continued onwards, Veldoran trudging along silently beside her. She was about to turn around to wave to Wolfgang one more time, but Veldoran grabbed her elbow in a tense grip.

"Continue walking," he whispered. "One of them is a mercenary spy. He recognized you."

"What do I do now?" she whispered back.

"Just keep walking. We will wait for him to strike," he patted his witchblade's sheath.

They kept walking for a minute or two, seemingly oblivious to their stalker. Suddenly, a flicker of danger-sense ran down her spine, and the female voice that had warned her of danger before, reverberated in her head. "Duck and cover, sweetie. Mind your head."

Immediately, she did as she was told. Veldoran bolted aside as well, wrong-footed by Lyra's evasive action. Just as they did so, a sniper bullet hit the ground where Lyra had stood a mere second before, raising a small cloud of dust.

Cursing, she dashed to a side, behind a destroyed car. Shots pinged around the structure of the ruined vehicle.

"Fuck, he's a sniper," she caught sight of Veldoran, behind a short ruined wall. Experimentally, he stuck his witchblade out, its glow catching the sniper's eye immediately. He took the shot within milliseconds, and the bullet ricocheted off the flat of his witchblade, which survived undamaged. However, the force was nearly enough to wrench the weapon out of his hand.

"He is too far for me to influence his mind," Veldoran hissed.

Thinking quickly, Lyra retrieved her mirror from her pack, using its reflection to catch sight of the sniper. She managed to gain a glimpse of the building as well as a minor reflection as well, which she assumed to be his scope. Raising it a little more, she tried to get a clearer image, only to have the damned thing shot out of her hand, the shards littering the floor around her.  
>"He's good," she looked over at Veldoran, who nodded grimly. "I can't take him without getting shot."<p>

"That would be highly inadvisable," he replied, risking a look out and nearly getting shot in the process. The bullet scraped past his shoulder, his armour protecting him from the worst of it. Reaching over to touch it, he felt a deep gash across the wraithbone plate."I am unsure if either of our armour can withstand the weapon he is using."

"I'd like to avoid that if at all possible," she replied.

"There is little choice, Lyra," he said. Sheathing his witchblade, he outlined the plan he had in mind to her, mentally.

"That's insane, Vel!" she growled.

The Warlock's plan was simple. He would throw himself out, and take the bullet, allowing enough time to kill the sniper. It was simple, but risky, considering the unknown quality of the weapon, and also the time needed to actually find the bastard.

"We have little choice," he repeated harshly. "Make ready!"

Lyra steeled herself.

"NOW!"

With lightning speed, he leapt out of cover, spying the sniper's nest immediately.

At the same moment, the sniper fired, the tungsten-cored bullet hurtling towards Veldoran at high velocity. Veldoran saw the bullet approach in perfect clarity, and he summoned all his strength to deflect it, channelling the Warp into a telekinetic shield. As the bullet encountered the shield, he gasped.

The force was incredible, but he managed to deflect the force into the surrounding area. With the whiplash of concussion, a cloud of dust rose into the air, obscuring him from view.

Within a half-second of the impact, Lyra took the shot. Only Veldoran had seen the nest properly, but that was enough. Within her mind's eye, she saw the target, and squeezed off the shot. There was nary a sound when it was all over, except for the reverberation of the two high-powered rifle shots.

Several hundred metres away, the mercenary sniper slumped facefirst into the dusty floor of apartment he had used as his sniper's nest, the perfectly round hole in his forehead dribbling blood and brain matter.

Veldoran fell to his knees, exhausted. The sheer amount of power he had to channel to deflect that bullet was positively astounding. He had never done anything like this before, without the proper armour.

The bullet, still intact, dropped onto the splintered concrete ground with a quiet 'clink'.

"Veldoran!" she rushed to him, her hands holding his shoulders up.

"I... am not wounded," he panted. "Just... give me a moment to rest."

She looked over to where the bullet had fallen and picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

"This is no anti-personnel bullet," she said, her voice low with horror. "This is from an anti-materiel rifle."

"What?" he looked at her, not understanding.

"It's used to destroy vehicles," she explained. "Whatever it is-"

"It shows their dedication to your demise," he finished. "It appears that Tenpenny's death is insufficient to stem the tide of assassins on your trail."

"Come on, lie down for a bit," she coaxed him gently. "Before you hurt yourself."

"I concur," he said, before slumping unceremoniously onto the ground.

***

It was an hour or so before Veldoran finally came to, and even then, he was extremely weak, and Lyra had no choice but to find them shelter for the night.

Leaving him to rest in an abandoned apartment, she made her way to the sniper's nest. Sadly, the massive rifle that he had brought along was irreparably damaged, having dropped several stories out of the window which he had fired from. On the sniper's corpse was more ammunition, a few grenades and a holodisc that held the same contract from Tenpenny. Evidently, he had not been informed of Tenpenny's death.

Veldoran had taken his mask off, laying upon the backpack he had been carrying. As far as she knew, he was asleep, and for good reason. The feat of mental strength he had performed was horrifically powerful, and it had taxed him to the point of utter exhaustion.

As she sat down next to his sleeping form, she sighed, dusting her hands off. For a moment, she stared at him, before allowing herself a small smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, before leaning over and planting a gentle kiss on his cheek, which she immediately regretted, considering his past reaction to even a flicker of attraction from her.

He did not stir, and his breath was calm and consistent. She heaved a sigh of relief.

"Sleep tight," she murmured.

***

"Did you hear that?" Initiate Jennings said, his eyes wide with fear. "That sounded like gunshots."

"We're surrounded by hundreds of Super Mutants. Hearing a gunshot in such a situation is routine," Paladin Vargas replied, rolling his eyes. "Keep your shirt on, we're the Brotherhood of Steel, not boy-scouts. We've trained for this."

Jennings nodded, but the fear was still in his eyes.

Sentinel Sarah Lyons was standing at edge of a door-length window, her keen eyes scanning the surroundings for contacts. So far, the Super Mutants had taken the hint with the daily cullings near the GNR building. Vargas' laser rifle had seen to most of the intruders, with one kill awarded to Reddin and Jennings each. So far, despite Jenning's jumpy demeanour, he had been a relatively solid shot. All he needed was the experience and the confidence that came with it.

Vargas thought otherwise, taking every opportunity to scold and reprimand the initiate despite Lyons' insistence not to.

"He needs to learn how to take it," he had retorted. "It's called character building. God knows he needs some of it."

Something was wrong. She could feel it.

The gunshots that Jennings had heard were no ordinary gunshots. They were too loud, and the reverberation was far more than one would expect from the hunting rifles and assault rifles the Super Mutants favoured. Whoever was out there was well-equipped...

"Vargas, go get Reddin, we're heading out," Lyons withdrew from the window, fixing Vargas with a cool stare. "Those aren't just any gunshots Jennings just heard, those are from a high-powered sniper rifle."

Vargas raised an eyebrow. "You can tell?"

Lyons nodded. "We've got someone out there with ordnance that is too powerful to be ignored, and I want to find out who it is. Come on, let's move out."


	12. Chapter 12

Veldoran awoke several hours later, feeling the lingering strain of mental exhaustion that he had been subject to. The ache, which had dominated all of his head, was now confined to a lingering migraine at the back of his head. Gingerly, he sat up and looked around. They were in a small apartment, musty with the smell of ancient concrete dust and long-rotten upholstery.

Lyra had fallen asleep with her rifle in hand. She had evidently been watching him while he slept, considering her posture and position.

Standing up, he scanned the area with his mind, snapping on his helm quickly. The area was relatively clear, except for a few non-sentient pests that roamed the area in search of sustenance. As he looked out the window, he spied a few of them – large insectoid creatures enlarged by the exposure to radiation. In the distance were the orange and grey figures of Super Mutants in their crudely assembled armour. They seemed to be agitated for some reason, pointing at unexplained directions with truncheon-sized fingers.

As he turned away from the dreary scene, he cast a short divining cantrip, setting the wraithbone runestones into motion. Slowly, the runes aligned themselves before him, glowing gently in the cold night air. The rune for 'human' and 'safety' were closely intertwined, but so was the rune for 'intervention', which was aligned with the rune corresponding to 'danger'. It was at times like this that he wished that Idranel was here. She would have been able to make more sense of it than he. It was her gift, a gift that had served her well in the days she had served as Farseer.

He choked down the feeling of bitterness that followed soon after. It was difficult to confront the fact that she was dead, along with a significant portion of Ulthwe's warhost. The plan had been perfect at first, stir up the Orks and have them delay or even deflect the Tyranid swarm. But the damnable Space Marines…

Arbiter-of-Death trembled with sympathy in its sheath, sensing Veldoran's welling anger. He damped it down, knowing that Lyra was sensitive to it as well. Almost on cue, she stirred a little, snorted a few times, before adjusting her head, still in the throes of sleep.

Opening his satchel, he replaced the wraithbone slivers within their casings once again. His hands brushed against Ilrissa's soulstone, which glowed crimson as his gauntleted fingertips brushed past it. The feather-light touch of her presence caressed his mind, eliciting a rare, sincere smile from the Warlock.

"Always the responsible one," she whispered into his mind. "Always trying to do the right thing. Some things about you never change, Veldoran."

"Would you have loved me any other way, Ilrissa?" he withdrew her soulstone from the satchel and placed it within the palm of his hand, bringing it up to his eyes as if to speak to it.

A memory of her gentle, melodious laughter rippled through the confines of his mind. "You are still the Veldoran I learned to love so very long ago…"

He was silent, merely listening to her voice was a relief, though it was still difficult, knowing that she lay dead and unreachable on Yrin.

"She loves you," Ilrissa continued as her laughter faded. "The girl… she loves you even though you do not return it."

"She is human," Veldoran replied. "We are worlds apart. Nothing can happen between us."

"You never know what how love can bloom even in the most barren of hearts," Ilrissa's mental voice was light, and he knew that she was smiling.

"And though your heart is cold and hard, it beats still. While you live, there is always hope."

"You speak like a crèche-infant," Veldoran returned jokingly. "There is no time to bandy words with points of poetry and songs of love."

"On the contrary, there is no better time," she replied. "She awakes now… see to her."

The glow faded from Ilrissa's soulstone, and Veldoran replaced it within his satchel.

With a yawn and a stretch, Lyra awoke, rubbing her eyes. She looked at him quizzically, though pleased that he was already awake. "Feel better?"  
>"Yes," he replied. "Well enough to travel."<p>

"Maybe we should have some breakfast before we go on," she consulted her Pipboy, before opening her canteen and taking a swig from it. "There's still time before first light."

"Perhaps," he replied, turning to the window again and giving the general area a cursory scan once again before removing his helm.

She reached into her pack and retrieved some packaged deviled eggs, which they shared. The food was overly-processed, stale and salty, but managed to satisfy their stomachs. Veldoran had gotten used to human food already, having subsisted on it for around a month. Lyra had spoken of other, better examples of food, but the environment, being what it was, was in no fit state to produce quality sustenance. Most of what humans consumed was local mutated livestock as well as packaged food filled with enough preservatives to last several hundred years without spoiling. Unhealthy, to say the least, given the radiation-tainted nature of food and drink in the wasteland.

They set off soon after, taking a path to the clearest metro station. From all indications, the metros were deathtraps, with miles and miles of tunnels infested with the worst the wasteland had to offer, such as ghouls and Raiders and even mirelurks, which were basically radiation mutated crabs that had evolved into hard-shelled, bipedal beings of enormous strength.  
>The entrance was forboding enough, with ages worth of trash and debris strewn across the concrete floor. There were also several bones littering the ground, and some graffiti adorning the side of the entrance.<p>

"Why do humans deface walls?" Veldoran asked, giving the graffiti a cursory glance. It was crude stuff, mostly to do with various problems with the reader's sexuality and dubious parentage.

"Just being childish, I guess," Lyra shrugged, unlatching the gate with a casual flick of her wrist. She pushed the gate back, which emitted a rusty, grating squeak as she did so. "Not much to over-analyse with, actually."

As the sound of the squeak reverberated through the dank, dark corridors of the Farragut West Metro station, Lyra caught the faint sound of a snarl echoing back.

"That doesn't sound too good," she looked at Veldoran with a rueful smile.

"I concur," Veldoran replied with a sigh. "A fight it is, then."

"Perhaps... it's time for a little practice?" she patted her machete sheath, before drawing it with gusto.

"A good time as any," Veldoran drew his witchblade, its inlaid gems humming in empathy and anticipation of battle.

The inside of the Metro was almost pitch black, which Veldoran solved by emitting a slight glowing aura. The cold blue light cast shadows upon the walls that looked like dancing skeletons, a sight which spooked her somewhat.

"Do not fear the shadows," he affirmed. "They have no capacity to hurt you."

She nodded, gripping the pistol in her left hand and the machete in her right. "Right."

They proceeded onward, their feet treading on bits of concrete and shattered linoleum. There were a few pieces of rotting paper and broken bits of glass on the floor, and the tiled floor was worn and scuffed with age and lack of maintenance. The glimmering light of lit fuel barrels could be seen in the distance, indicating that someone had been here recently. It would have probably been Raiders passing through, as most wastelanders would avoid the tunnels out of fear of ghoul attacks.

Lyra set a booted foot down upon a piece of glasses, which crunched underfoot loudly.

Veldoran turned sharply. Though he said nothing, his irritation was clear enough.

"Sorry," she smiled sheepishly.

A snarl, this time much closer than before, wiped the smile off her face.  
>Out of the shadows, an emaciated figure in tattered clothing ran forward, its face a horrible, skeletal mess. Its eyes stared madly out of its skinless face, and its hands, like claws, were honed into sharp points, stained red with blood.<p>

"Calm!" Veldoran cautioned her psychically.

She obeyed without hesitation, heartrate even and breath steady. With a horizontal slash, she took the feral ghoul's arms off, before striking it in the torso with her booted foot and placing a few shots into its cranium while it thrashed on the ground.

"Well done," he observed. "Keep at it."

Two more ghouls rushed forward, one headed straight for each of them. Veldoran merely kicked the creature to the floor, stabbing it once with his witchblade. The creature's face caved in easily, and stopped its motion entirely.

The other ghoul was no more successful, as Lyra sidestepped it deftly and lopped its head off with one graceful arc of her blade. Its headless body toppled to the floor, spilling irradiated blood onto the already filthy tile floor.

"Good," he praised again, nodding at her encouragingly.

***  
>"Did you hear that?" Sandoval motioned for the guards to stop chatting. He had heard the snarl of agitated ghouls in the distance. Evidently, someone had riled the ghouls that populated the Metro.<p>

The faint sound of pistol shots also reached them as well.

Sandoval primed his laser rifle and slipped on his helmet, ordering the guards to do the same.

Jenkins stepped out of the Outcasts' rest area, a relaxed smile on his face. "What's going on?"

Sandoval shushed him, his martial stance indicating his intent.  
>"Get the rest of the team, bring up the rear," he hissed at his executive officer. "Quick and clean."<p>

Jenkins nodded, motioning with professional grace to the rest of the resting outcasts. One by one, they slipped on their helmets and primed their weapons, falling into formation with trained confidence.

There were a few more snarls, coming from the entrance to the Metro at the top of the escalators, and the helmet's audio enhancement sensors picked up the unmistakeable sound of a blade rending flesh and cracking bone.  
>As they approached the bottom of the escalators, they realized that a faint glow seemed to suffuse the entire area, illuminating the general vicinity.<br>There was a sudden tickling itch in his bones.

He motioned for his team to take cover. Some ducked behind benches, some behind large chunks of fallen concrete. He pressed himself flat against a wall, weapon at the ready.

For a moment, they waited in tense anticipation, as all of the sounds had stopped. Sandoval had a sick feeling that they had already been spotted.  
>"You are correct..." a throaty voice issued forth in his ears and crawled into his skull. "Cease your feeble attempts at camouflage."<p>

Some of his squad looked bewilderedly at him. He raised a hand in a "Steady" gesture.

"Come out of your hiding spaces," the voice growled. "Like good little children..."

Something compelled him to break out of cover and go upstairs, something strong. He resisted it with every fibre of his will, his arms trembling with effort. Some of his less able teammates were unable to resist the compulsion, breaking ranks and running upstairs. He heard strange yelps and the clatter of weapons hitting the ground, but no weapons fire.

Slowly, inexorably, his will buckled. Resisting with every step forward, Sandoval walked up the escalator, his booted feet clanking against the metal steps.

He gritted his teeth, mustering a burst of will enough to halt his steps forward for two seconds, but it was too little, too late.

As he took the final few steps up, he saw the source of the glow, a man in a set of magnificent robed armour, his face covered by a featureless bone-white mask, with slits of crimson for eyes. Beside him was a beautiful, raven-haired girl, armed with a bloodied machete and a pistol. Her eyes were narrowed, focused. His team was sprawled around him, and he noticed precise holes in their armour, most of the in the thighs and legs. The holes were lengthways, as if they were made by a blade... but powered armour was made to be proof against all sorts of melee weaponry, up to and including chainsaws. These holes were too neat, too precise to be chainsaws.

He raised his laser rifle, but the mental pressure increased. He snarled in frustration, finger trembling on the trigger, but not quite enough to fire it.

"This one is strong," the robed man turned to the girl, who strode forward and knocked the laser rifle from his hands. "As befitting a leader..."  
>She tied his arms securely behind his back while he knelt, before removing his helmet.<p>

"Who are you?" she demanded. "And why are you waiting for us?"  
>He snarled, struggling against the restraints. Despite the enhanced strength his suit gave him, there was no leverage that allowed him to break his restraints.<p>

The robed man strode forward, placing a gauntleted hand upon his face. He struggled, feeling a sudden intrusion within his mind.

"His mind... is shielded. His will is strong. Very strong," he heard the robed man's voice echo within his mind. The mental pressure increased several times, eliciting a choked groan from him. "Your name. Tell me your name."

The sharp tips of the robed man's gauntlets dug into his flesh, drawing blood. Tears welled in his eyes not from pain, but from the immense effort. "Rrraggh!"

The mental pressure dropped for a moment, before returning again with searing intensity. "Tell me your name!"

"Lyra Kendal," the girl blurted out suddenly, before blushing and turning away.

"Outcast Protector Roger Sandoval!" he spat.

"Your purpose..." the robed man murmured.

"I was ordered... to investigate... some kind of advanced technological phenomena..." Sandoval gasped. "I was told by a resident of Megaton... it had something to do... with the both of you."

"Who was it?" the girl asked.

"His name... was Kale..." Sandoval replied.

"A security guard," the girl narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to kill him when I get back."

"You... don't have to... he's already dead," Sandoval said. "I killed him myself."

"Listen to me," she growled. "Stop following us. It's clear that we could have killed you all today. If you don't, we won't guarantee the same mercy we've showed today."

"Do you understand?" the robed man's grip tightened momentarily.

"... Yes..." Sandoval gritted his teeth.

"Good," the robed man released him, before stabbing him once in each thigh, the glowing blade that he carried slicing easily into the reinforced metal of his armour as if it was butter.

He choked down a scream.

The last thing he felt was the flat of the robed man's blade against the back of his skull.

***  
>As the Brotherhood Outcast leader slumped to the ground, Lyra got up from her crouch. "Damn. One after another. At first, it was assassins. Now we have the Brotherhood Outcasts on our backs."<p>

"Scavengers of technology," Veldoran noted. "It seems my presence has aroused their interest."

"It's about you, now," Lyra grinned. "I'm just along for the ride."

"It seems so," Veldoran agreed. "I do not agree with your decision to spare their lives, though."

"We'll be fine," she replied. "Just destroy their weapons and we'll move on."

To punctuate the point, she filched Sandoval's sidearm, examining it with a keen eye. "Plasma pistol. Nice."

They piled the Outcast weapons in the center of the entrance plaza, salvaging the best items for later use. The laser rifles were especially good finds, with good range and accuracy plus decent durability. The Outcast plasma grenades came in handy as well, which they used to melt down the gathered weaponry. In a flash, the gathered weapons were reduced to a pile of green goo.

"A shame we can't bring them all along," Lyra pointed out. "They would fetch a good price with Moira. Especially the powered armour."

"You do not intend to reserve a set for your own use?" he asked.

"I can't wear it," she replied, shaking her head. "I don't even know how to put it on. Moira managed to get her hands on one set. She let me try it. Turns out you need proper training to use it. I nearly dislocated my shoulder when I tried it on."

The rest of the trip through the Metro was relatively uneventful, with the odd ghoul being quickly dispatched by Lyra's bladework. Veldoran was quite pleased with his student's progress, especially considering that she, despite being human, was taking well to the overall style of swordplay.

"Remember to show discipline in your strikes," he instructed as she struck another ghoul down with an arcing swing to its torso, caving in its ribcage with a follow up shot from her pistol. "Lack of control will lead to overcompensation, which will allow the enemy to retaliate in between your strikes."

The collapsed tunnels soon led them to a maintenance room with an attached office. On the far side was a fence with a gate, attached to their side by a long metal catwalk. In the dim squalor, Lyra caught sight of two hunched, humanoid figures behind the fence - ghouls. The fence's mesh was riddled with claw marks from the ghouls' repeated attacks, but had not been breached.

"There is a large amount of flammable gas in that chamber," Veldoran warned. "We should avoid the use of energy weapons."

Lyra thought for a moment, before breaking out into a smile. Raising her newly acquired plasma pistol, she sent a shot into the fenced area where the ghouls stood, igniting the gas. The resultant flash-burn incinerated the feral ghouls.

"... An acceptable stratagem..." Veldoran conceded.

The lock, covered with rust and soot, was relatively difficult to break through, which she remedied easily by shooting it with her plasma pistol, melting through the metal of the lock. She kicked it open with relative ease.

"After you," Veldoran gestured, amused.

"Why, thank you," Lyra replied cheekily.


	13. Chapter 13

Tarashe awoke to the sound of the local fauna, warbling in the trees around him. It was still early, the sky was a shade of deep indigo, and most of his retinue was asleep still. The Harlequins had chosen to sleep on a single slender limb each, keeping their balance seemingly without effort and with immense ease. The Harlequin leader had already awoken, and her holomask greeted him with the same toothy grin she and the rest of her ilk always wore.

"Good morning, Warlock Tarashe," At'lia greeted warmly. "Did you sleep well?"

"As well as any day I spend on Ulthwe," he replied. "Yourself?"

"Probably better than you," she sighed happily. "I feel… perfect."

"Sleeping on a branch," Tarashe shook his head. "I wonder how you Rillietann do it…"

"It takes training," she replied. "When grace and balance is second nature to you, even a branch can serve as a bed to rest on, no matter how thin or feeble."

To prove her point, she ran up the tree, her feet placed on a daintily slender branch. She looked about for a while, before looking downward at him. "Odd. It appears we have company."

Immediately, she let out a shrill whistle, awakening her troupe. The Harlequins arose, nudging their Craftworld brethren in turn. With equal speed and grace, she dropped from the slender limbed branch, aided by her flip-belt.

"Who are they?" Tarashe asked, his right hand caressing the pommel of his witchblade.

"Our kin," was all At'lia said.

Within moments, they could hear the reverberation of heavy footsteps against the soft loam, like small drums beating at high speed.

Out of the surrounding forest emerged a pair of riders, each of them on a magnificent plumed lizard and wearing simple but functional mesh armour, helms backed with the same brilliant plumes as their mounts, much like the helm of a Dire Avenger Aspect Warrior.

"Exodite kin," Tarashe raised an eyebrow as the both of them dismounted.

From what he knew of Exodite customs, the leader would be the one with the red pauldrons. The gathered Eldar relaxed, the Warp spiders lowering their spinneret rifles, and the Rangers emerging from cover and removing their hoods. Ronahn looked especially interested to see the Exodites, for some reason.

"Well met, kindred," the leader removed his helm, revealing a somewhat weathered and tanned visage. He looked as ageless as any Eldar, but time had not been kind to his flesh. "I am Solayn, leader of the Exodites of this world. We welcome you to Hrijnthir as honoured guests, but it is a hard welcome, I am afraid."

"Hard?" Tarashe asked.

Before Solayn could reply, Ronahn strode forward, a broad smile upon his face. "Solayn, it has been a while."

A smile crept across Solayn's face as he began to recognize the one who had spoken. "Ronahn!"

With grins upon their faces, they embraced, trading thumps on the back.  
>"You have done well for yourself, old friend!" Ronahn laughed. "Leading the Hrijnthiri now…"<p>

"And you, a Pathfinder!" Solayn observed with pleasure.

"Perhaps we should leave our reminiscing for later," Ronahn gestured to the quietly bewildered group before them. "What business have you?"

The smile faded from Solayn's face. "My original purpose was to use the Webway to contact a Craftworld for aid. Humans have landed on this planet and seek to drive us off. They are many. Far too many for us to fight alone."

Ronahn's eyes hardened. "Humans…"

"How many have come?" Tarashe asked.

"No less than a thousand," Solayn replied. "Colonists. When we claimed ownership of these lands, they decided to oppose us by force of arms."

"… We cannot help you," Tarashe replied, after a while.

"Seer!" Ronahn protested. "But… these are our kin."

"Solayn is your friend," Tarashe said. "Your loyalty to him is affecting your judgement."

"It is never poor judgement to act in favour of a friend in need," Ronahn narrowed his eyes dangerously.

"You swore an oath, Pathfinder," Tarashe retorted. "You swore an oath to help me find Veldoran, and you joined us on this mission of your own accord. Are you going to break that oath?"

Ronahn smoldered silently, gazing from Tarashe to Solayn, who shook his head and spoke softly. "Your word is your bond, Ronahn. Our need is great, but Biel-Tan is not far. Farseer Macha will help us."

"Your compassion does you credit, Ronahn," Tarashe softened his tone, but there was an underlying strength in it that Solayn admired. "But every moment we spend on other tasks lessens the chance that we find Veldoran."

Lifting his gaze from the ground, Ronahn stared at Solayn with undisguised fervor. "I will return, after my obligations are completed. You have my word."

Solayn nodded, a placating smile on his face. "Do not worry, my friend. I will see you again soon enough."

Just as the Exodite leader finished speaking, the webway gate flared to life, bathing the surrounding forest in a dim blue glow. From the event horizon emerged a short-ish figure resplendent in green and white armour.

It was Macha.

As she strode forward to meet the group, an entire squad of Howling Banshees issued forth from the Webway gate, shuriken pistols raised in a martial stance. Their white and green armour was pristine, and their power swords finely-wrought and glowing with energy. As they spread out in an echelon alongside the Farseer, other warriors emerged from the portal, all Aspect warriors of different shrines. A warp-spider Exarch wearing the colours of Biel-Tan nodded at Temnestra, who saluted with the power blades on her arms.

"Tarashe," she focused her iridescent eyes upon the Warlock with a thin smile. "Go forth without worry. Biel-Tan marches this day, and we shall cleanse this world of the human rabble."

Behind her, the Aspect warriors cheered, a cry that echoed for miles, filling the hearts of the gathered Exodites with hope and pride.

***  
>Meanwhile…<br>The trek to the end of the Farragut West/Tenleytown Metro tunnels was uneventful at best. Many of the remaining ghouls were easily dispatched, providing excellent practice for Lyra and her budding talents at swordsmanship. There exit was delayed for a while, as the door was jammed with age and lack of maintenance.

"Wait," Veldoran said, motioning for her to stop forcing the door. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" she asked, placing her ear against the door.

A loud thump answered her, splintering the door and bruising her ear.

An inarticulate roar assaulted their eardrums. There was undoubtedly a Super Mutant on the other side of that door.

"Get back!" Veldoran grabbed her and pulled her back from the rapidly disintegrating door.

A slender stream of blood trickled from her ear, which had been impaled by a splinter or two. She was in some pain, but had steeled herself enough to continue the fight.

As the door finally gave way, the Super Mutant entered the tunnel, its orange-grey skin glinting with sweat and smelling of carrion.

"Stupid human!" it bellowed at them, tendrils of saliva clinging to its pustule-ridden lips. "I'll kill you!"

It swung its makeshift weapon – a plank with several nails hammered into it, barely missing Veldoran's helmeted head.

"This creature is fast for its size," Veldoran observed, dodging the strikes with casual ease despite the fact that the tunnel offered little room to maneuver.

"Stand! Still!" it roared in frustration, before yelping in pain as Lyra put a few bullets in its torso with her 10mm pistol. The pain did not faze it in the least, merely making the creature even more ornery.

"Damn, I need to use something other than this damn pea-shooter," she holstered the weapon, and withdrew Sandoval's plasma pistol. It's emitter aperture flared several times as she pulled the trigger again and again, the bolts of plasma striking its torso and dissolving large chunks of flesh.  
>Still, the Super Mutant kept moving, though its movements were more sluggish.<p>

With a final, desperate burst, Lyra shot it in the face, blowing off its jaw. Gurgling inarticulately, the Super Mutant fell to the ground, clutching its bleeding face, sans jaw. A final nonchalant stab in its guts ended its desperate moaning.

Dabbing her earlobe with a sleeve, she gave the dead mutant a kick in its side, partly as payback and partly to confirm that it was dead.

"You are unharmed?" Veldoran asked.

"Nothing bruised but the ego," she sighed. "I should have paid closer attention… should have known that the sound would attract attention. Well, at least the door isn't jammed now."

She stepped out of the maintenance tunnel into the main corridor. Daylight streamed down from the grilled entrance to Chevy Chase, casting dark lines on the rubble-strewn floor. "Finally. I'm sick and tired of running through tunnels that smell like rotting ghouls."

Veldoran's reply was cut off by the sound of an explosion in the distance. The rat-tat-tat of automatic fire also echoed down into the corridor, along with the sounds of human shouts. Fainter still was the murmur of a laser rifle, or several, firing one after another.

"There is combat ahead," Veldoran mused.

Lyra withdrew her sniper rifle, creeping slowly up the stairs. A Super Mutant's roar stopped her dead in her tracks, but from the distance, it was clear that the roar was not directed at her.

As she crept to the top of the stairs, hidden partially by the lowered elevation, she managed to catch sight of several Super Mutants firing at a particular corner of a building. She saw the red-flash of laser weapons answering the Super Mutant's ballistic weapons-fire, occasionally scoring a hit on a super mutant and scorching their makeshift armour, or if the shot happened to hit living flesh – a cauterized hole the size of a fist.

As she looked through the scope, she noted that the laser fire was from a power armoured human quite similar to the Outcast personnel they had met before. However, where the Outcasts' armour was black, these guys wore unpainted powered armour, their grey surfaces dulled by concrete dust.

A grenade from the Super Mutants was quickly returned, and the small-ish object exploded at their feet, taking out two of the three Super Mutants. Lyra caught the sound of raucous, defiant laughter. She smiled a little, somewhat taken aback by the sheer incongruity of the situation.

Without any prompting from Veldoran, Lyra lined up a shot and killed the remaining Super mutant with a bullet to the head, which shattered its skull and left bloody fragments all over the dusty concrete ground. The shots from the power-armoured humans continued for a bit, until they finally realized there was no more directed from the Super Mutants.

With professional skill, the three of them emerged from cover, using their weapons to cover every possible angle of attack.

"Perhaps we should introduce ourselves?" Lyra offered.

"They wear the same make of powered-armour as the outcasts we left behind in the tunnels," Veldoran pointed out. "Do you really believe that this is the safest course of action?"

"They might be the Brotherhood of Steel," Lyra pointed out. "I've heard that they're protecting the Galaxy News Radio building. It makes sense to find them here."

"And?" Veldoran prompted. "Besides their reputation as warriors of skill?"

"And I've heard good things about them. They actually do bother to help wastelanders in need, and also recruit some of the populace to join their ranks," she continued.

Veldoran did not particularly understand the concept of a 'knight', but the general concept of a 'protector' seemed to fit perfectly. He nodded slowly to express his cautious approval.

Lyra stepped out of the metro tunnel access ramp, and with waved with her free hand. "HEY! OVER HERE!"

The three power-armoured humans dropped back into cover, with one blonde-haired one peeking out of cover with a set of binoculars.

"Are you guys Brotherhood? I shot that last Super Mutant for you!" Lyra shouted.

With that, she reslung her rifle and walked closer, Veldoran close behind.  
>The three power-armoured humans stood up again, their weapons pointed squarely at her and Veldoran. Raising her hands, Lyra walked closer, offering no resistance. The three of them lowered their weapons, after a moment of tension.<p>

"What's a wastelander doing in the DC Ruins?" one of them asked – a blonde woman whose hair was pulled back unceremoniously into an uneven ponytail. "Don't you know it's dangerous out here?"

"I'm looking for the Galaxy News Radio building," Lyra replied. "I was told that my father would be there."

"Your father?" the blonde woman raised an eyebrow. "We haven't seen any civilians here lately."

"Maybe Three Dog might know more about this," one of her companions suggested.

"I don't know…" her voice was laced with suspicion. "I don't even know whether you're telling the truth…"

"Look, I can't prove anything, I know," Lyra replied diplomatically. "If I find my father there, you'll have your answer. If not, I'll show myself out."

"Fine," she replied. "We were headed there anyways."

"I'm Lyra, by the way," Lyra held out a hand, which the blonde woman took. "Lyra Kendal."

"Sentinel Sarah Lyons," she returned quickly. "Brotherhood of Steel."

"Paladin Vargas," the dark-haired Hispanic smiled and took her hand cordially.

"Initiate Reddin," the remaining Brotherhood member seemed rather aloof, but shook her hand nonetheless.

"I've heard about you guys," Lyra nodded. "Fighting the good fight, as Three Dog says."

"He says many things," Lyons smiled. "At least all of them are true, whether good or bad."

Veldoran strode up to the group cautiously, knowing that it was likely that the newcomers would be alarmed by his presence and his appearance.

"This is Vel," Lyra gestured to Veldoran, who had removed his mask. The Warlock nodded firmly, a gesture of respect from one warrior to another.

"I have heard much about your kind," he gazed at Lyons steadily. "Many say you are formidable warriors."

Lyons was slightly taken aback by his words. Not because of their content, but rather the format. It was odd to hear proper spoken English without contractions.

"We try to be," she replied after a while. "Always strive for better, as my father says."

"Look, I hate to be breaking up this little love fest, but it might be better if we headed for the GNR building now. Being out in the open gives me the creeps," Vargas interjected. "Besides, Jennings is dead, and I need to get his armour back to base."

"Right," Lyons acknowledged. "Come on, we're not too far."

The broken roads and intersections hindered their progress for a while, but they were able to navigate their way to the plaza in which the GNR building stood. Most of the other routes were blocked by collapsed structures and concrete rubble.

The plaza itself was a pretty open space, with many wrecked cars and vans littering it. Already from afar they could see the grey-armoured figures of more Brotherhood troops, each carrying an assortment of weapons. Two of them, standing next to the main entrance to the GNR building, bore miniguns, their well-maintained barrels shining with gun oil.

As they approached, both of them stood at attention and saluted Lyons with a marked raise of their minigun barrels.

"Anything to report?" Lyons asked.

"Nothing, Sentinel," they replied in unison.

"Right, unlock the doors, I've got a few guests-" Lyons was cut off by the backwash of a devastating explosion that sent them sprawling.

Out of a cordon burst a positively colossal Super Mutant, wielding a massive club fashioned from a fire-hydrant. As the Brotherhood personnel regained their footing, they pelted the massive creature with withering firepower. Still, between the armour it wore and its phenomenally tough skin, not many shots were able to cause any damage.

Reddin stepped up, carrying two laser rifles akimbo as she retreated to the steps of the GNR building. Her shots were fast, but inaccurate, the bolts merely causing minor weals on the Behemoth's tough hide. Her resistance was short lived, as the Behemoth's club caught her midsection and sent her flying into one of the nearby walls. The resultant crunch of metal and bone was so loud that it was clearly impossible for her to have survived the blow.

"Colvin! Get the missile launcher up!" Lyons shouted to one of her subordinates. "Take it down now!"

"I'm trying, Sentinel, but the firing mechanism is jammed!" he replied, frantically fiddling with the controls.

More Super Mutants joined the fray, laying down suppressive fire as the Behemoth picked up a wrecked car and threw it at the Brotherhood members ducking under cover.

Lyra looked around from her spot in cover. Veldoran had disappeared, leaving his backpack on the floor next to her. "Huh?"

The sudden drop in temperature and the bone-itching crackle in the air told her that the Warlock was already in the fray. Teeth tingling with warp-induced static, she withdrew Sandoval's pistol and began taking potshots at any mutants within range.

Veldoran, however, had already managed to silence two of the mutants, his witchblade weaving complex hieroglyphs as he dueled some of the lesser creatures in close range.

The lesser mutants died quickly, their flesh offering no more resistance than paper would. A bolt of eldritch energy answered another small group who had turned their attention on him, parts of their bodies suddenly disintegrating as their very substance twisted under the assault.

Those who survived to retreat were quickly cut down in a hail of gunfire from the minigun-wielding duo at the entrance, but the Behemoth itself was still alive.

With deft grace, the Warlock leapt from the top of a bus stop, impaling the Behemoth in the back with his glowing witchblade. The creature screamed in agony, trying desperately to shake him off. Veldoran clung onto it like a tick, and with every motion, the witchblade slid downward, the wound enlarging and spilling corrupted blood.

"What the hell is he doing?" Lyons mouth was open in undisguised wonderment.

With a deft tug, he withdrew his witchblade from the creature's spine, jumping off and landing on the ground with fluid grace. The Behemoth fell to its knees with a resounding thump.

The Warlock leapt on top of its shoulders and severed its head with a nonchalant flick of his blade, the ugly and bloodied thing rolling and coming to a halt at the base of the steps. The body itself fell forward into the cracked pavement, dust billowing from its impact.

Slowly, deliberately, he wiped the blood off his witchblade with a piece of ragged cloth, before sheathing it in its scabbard. The blade flared blue a little, almost as if it was pleased at the slaughter its owner had wrought with it.

His bone-white mask was flecked with the brownish red blood of the Super Mutant Behemoth, eliciting a chill down Lyra's spine.

"An exhilarating battle," he said simply, as Lyra wiped the blood off his mask.  
>Lyons merely stared at him. "You look like you've been doing this all your life."<p>

"That would not be inaccurate," Veldoran admitted.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 23

Sandoval awoke to find himself strapped to a table of cold steel. The restraints which held him in place were also bitterly cold, almost biting into his flesh. Clad only in his underwear, he felt vulnerable and agitated. As he opened his eyes, piercing white light shone into them, blinding him for a moment.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized that he was in some sort of medical bay. Around him were stainless-steel trolleys with various surgical implements, as well as blood bags hanging on racks, arranged meticulously according to blood-type. His was the only occupied table within the brightly lit medical area, and the only one equipped with a heart monitor and various medical devices. The room itself was grey metal, with no windows and only one door leading into the room.

He struggled against the restraints, grunting with effort. It was impossible to budge, the restraints were too tight and too well-made for him to overcome through brute force. He doubled he would have been able to move even with his suit of powered-armour.

Suddenly, he heard a shrill beep, followed by a voice, static scratched and tinny. "Don't bother, Protector. Those restraints are designed to hold Super Mutants. You won't fare any better than them."

The voice carried a distinct accent. A southern lilt, though clipped and cultured, he had heard it somewhere before, but the name eluded him. "Roger Sandoval, Protector of the Brotherhood Outcasts. I've only ever seen you in intelligence reports."

"Who the fuck are you?" he shouted, still struggling against the restraints.  
>"What the fuck do you want with me? What have you done to my men?"<p>

"Tsk tsk, such vulgar behaviour. I expected better from you," the voice replied. "I'm sure you've heard my broadcasts in one form or another."

"Eden," Sandoval said finally, his eyes widening with shock.

"President Eden, if you don't mind," he chided Sandoval gently. "I'd like to have a chat with you about your mission."

"I'm not telling you anything," Sandoval growled. "Not in a million years."

"Come now, Roger," Eden said patronizingly in the most charming, erudite voice that Sandoval had the displeasure of hearing. "We're both civilized men. Isn't a civilized conversation warranted in such circumstances?"

"What kind of civilized man straps another to a table in his underwear?" Sandoval retorted.

"Merely a precaution under the circumstances," Eden replied. "I'm sure you understand."

Sandoval was about to reply when the door to the medical bay opened with a pneumatic hiss. Three figures emerged, two soldiers clad in the distinctively intimidating Enclave version of powered-armour, and one man wearing a black uniform with a high collar and a khaki-coloured storm coat, which he assumed to be the one in charge.

"Might I present, Colonel Augustus Autumn, the commander of the Enclave Armed Forces," Eden's voice was as warm as Colonel Autumn's face was cold. "He will be… interviewing you shortly."

"You mean, interrogating me," Sandoval gritted his teeth.

"Minor semantic details, Roger. Nothing more," Eden replied airily.

"You're just a coward, hiding behind an intercom," Sandoval spat. "You make me sick."

"On the contrary, Roger, I'm not hiding at all," Eden said. "Colonel Autumn, you may begin your interview at any time."

Autumn nodded, gesturing toward the door, where two hazmat-suited Enclave scientists awaited. They strode in quickly, each carrying a suitcase. Each of them fiddled with the cases, withdrawing various syringes and evil-looking surgical tools. Sandoval felt his heart pound in his chest and his face grew cold as they worked.

One of the scientists jabbed a heavy gauge needle into his arm, injecting something into his bloodstream. He grunted at the sharp pain. They were treating him like a brahmin, like a piece of meat. His vision whirled as the chemical took effect, and it seemed that the pain in his arm was exponentially increasing despite the fact that the scientist had removed the needle long ago.

"That's Crucinedrine," Autumn explained. "It amplifies any sensation by a factor of ten, especially pain. Right now, we will give the drug a little time to circulate through your body, before we begin our interview."

"You… sick… bastards…" Sandoval gritted his teeth, feeling the needle puncture in his arm burn with a pain that increased every passing second. The cold was even fiercer now, so much so that his wrists felt like they were frostbitten.

"If you tell us what we want to know, there will be no need to resort to the more crude means of persuasion," Autumn said. "It is your choice and your choice alone."

"Go to hell," Sandoval hissed.

Autumn gave one of the scientists a pointed look. She, for it was clear through the tight-fitting hazmat suit, picked up a scalpel and made a small incision on his hand.

Sandoval grunted. It was a degree of pain he had never experienced before. It took all of his willpower merely not to scream.

Immediately after, she withdrew a small bottle of sterile alcohol and squirted it directly onto the wound. The pain was horrific, and Sandoval barely managed to bite back a scream.

Slowly, almost sensually, she wiped the wound, and applied a strip of gauze to the cut. The pain stopped, replaced by an intense itch.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" Autumn had a faint, sadistic smile on his cruel features. "Such pain from a little cut."

Sandoval grinned, describing in lurid detail various sexual escapades he had with Autumn's mother and sister and how they had enjoyed every moment of it.

Nostrils flaring in anger, Autumn wrenched the scalpel from the female scientist and stabbed him in the arm, the blade slicing easily into his flesh.  
>Sandoval screamed, thrashing impotently against the metal table.<p>

"Do you like that?" Autumn hissed. "I'm sure you do, you vulgar, uncivilized wasteland yokel…"

Autumn repeated the process on Sandoval's legs, eliciting the same, agonized scream from the Outcast commander.

"Sir, you'll kill him at this rate," the female Enclave scientist said softly, her voice muffled by the hazmat suit's mask. "President Eden was very clear that we would need him alive."

Panting heavily, Sandoval managed another grin, laughing through his tears and describing the extra-marital mating habits of the womenfolk of Autumn's family.

"I'll take over, sir," the male scientist removed the scalpel from Autumn's hand, laying the bloodied instrument aside and taking another from the tray next to him.

Autumn stormed out of the room, the sound of Sandoval's hysterical laughter taunting him until the doors shut behind him.

Wordlessly, the scientists set about staunching his new wounds, in preparation for the new ones. Despite his discipline and strength of will, he screamed with every caress of the scalpel. Thankfully, they stopped an hour later when they deemed his level of blood loss to be detrimental to his survival.

He sank quickly into dreamless sleep, haunted by the fate of his team.

Sandoval awoke a few hours later, still strapped onto the table, which had been cleansed of the blood from his torture session. The air was cold and still, but no longer caused immense discomfort. Struggling against the restraints again was futile, and he did not try beyond a cursory tug.

The sheer quiet was unnerving. Where before he had heard footsteps outside the medical bay during his torture session, it was now utterly silent. It probably meant that it was nighttime, and that all of the Enclave personnel were asleep.

He tried closing his eyes, but the cold metal of the table was palpable enough to keep him awake. After fifteen minutes he simply gave up, mulling darkly over his fate.

The door to the medical bay slid open, and he braced himself. It was probably the scientists, coming to enact more torture upon him. Craning his neck to glance in the direction of the door, he realized it was the female scientist, still clad in the Enclave hazmat suit. The door shut behind her, and she tapped the control panel next to it with a white-gloved hand. The door emitted a faint squeal, probably its internal servos functioning.

She walked over silently, fiddling with the climate-controlled pharmaceutical cabinet, withdrawing a syringe and a small jar with a rubber top, the kind used to store intravenous drugs. She removed the plastic cover from the syringe and pierced the rubber top with its needle, withdrawing the contents of the jar.

"Another torture session, doctor?" Sandoval asked tersely.

"Not exactly," she replied. Even though muffled by the mask, Sandoval heard the smile in her voice. "It all depends on your definition of torture."

"Stop beating around the bush," Sandoval replied. "Either do it or don't."

Setting the syringe aside, she removed her helmet and set it to one side, rich brown hair spilling across her pristine white hazmat suit.

"Quite the looker," Sandoval thought absently.

"So feisty," she said, her full lips curving into a smile. Her grey eyes seemed to shine with unconcealed eagerness.

"So? Get on with it," Sandoval growled. "Haven't got all night-"

His words were cut off by her sudden, aggressive kiss. It was positively the most aggressive kiss he had ever received from a woman. She was quite literally forcing her tongue into his mouth, a decidedly pleasant experience despite the circumstance.

Finally, she withdrew, a feral glint in her eyes.

"… The fuck was that?" Sandoval glared at her.

"I have a proposition for you," she replied without directly answering his question. "You do whatever I want, and I'll water down the next dose of Crucinedrine you receive."

"What are we talking about here?" Sandoval asked, suspecting her answer. Despite his nonchalance, it was impossible to truly conceal his arousal.

"It looks like you know what I want already," she smirked, placing a hand on his inner thigh and slowly moving it upward and stopping just shy of his groin.

Sandoval was silent for a moment. It seemed like some wild adolescent dream. He tried not react to her 'persuasion', keeping his face and voice as stony as possible. "You are one sick puppy, lady."

"Call me Sara," she said, fiddling with the hem of his briefs.

"What about the cameras? I'm sure your superiors are keeping any eye on me 24/7…" he asked.

"I've set it to play a 2 hour long recording of you sleeping," she replied, slipping out of the hazmat suit. She wore a plain, grey two-piece underwear set, which accentuated her curves. Picking up the syringe, she injected herself with the contents. "Funny thing about Crucinedrine… It works with all sensations, not just pain."

"Why me? I'm sure there are loads of Enclave soldier-boys who'd love the chance to have at you," Sandoval asked. "And besides, I haven't agreed yet."

She gave him a mock pout. "Don't you know how to treat ladies right? But asking you is a mere formality, I think."

With a flourish, she injected him with the remaining Crucinedrine in the syringe. His vision blurred a bit, then cleared again.

"It's diluted, but still potent enough for our uses," she explained coyly, slipping out of her underwear. She pulled down his briefs, leaving him naked.

With deft grace, she climbed on top of the table and straddled his groin, her bare chest against his. The mere sensation of her warm, bare flesh against his chest was beyond pleasurable.

"So… do you agree to my conditions, Roger?" she smirked, running a manicured nail along his chest, teasing the fine hairs upon it.

"When… er… you put it that way…" he breathed. "N-not much I can say, right?"

"Good boy," she smirked, kissing him again.

Before surrendering to the pleasure, he thought about Jana, probably locked up in some dark and dank part of the Enclave facility. The guilt vanished in a burst of unmitigated euphoria, and for the remainder of that night, he thought nothing more of her.

_**Meanwhile… **_

"Boss, did you even see what he did just now to those Super Mutants?" one of the mini-gun toting Brothers pointed his weapon directly at Veldoran's head. "How the fuck did you do that with your hand?"

"Whoa," Lyra held up her hands. "Vel just saved all of us. What the fuck are you doing pointing your gun at him like that?"

"What are you?" Vargas stared at him with open hostility and suspicion, his laser rifle's aperture was also aimed at the Warlock's chest.

"He… he… that's his business and not yours!" Lyra shouted, flustered almost beyond words.

"Calm yourself, Lyra," Veldoran said. "I appreciate your gesture, but I believe it is time I was clear about who I am…"

Removing his mask, he also removed the headband he wore to conceal his pointed ears. "My name is Veldoran, Warlock of Craftworld Ulthwe."

"You can't be human," Lyons stared at his ears and at his unblemished visage.

"I am not," he replied. "I am Eldar."

"Why are you here?" Vargas demanded. "Why Earth?"

"I was stranded here by accident," he replied, turning his iridescent gaze upon the armoured human. "It was… fortuitous I was found by my human companion here."

"He was injured. I brought him back to Megaton when I found him," Lyra explained, looking at the raised weapons nervously. "He's done nothing to harm me or the people of Megaton. That should say enough about his nature."

There was a pause as Lyons digested the information. Finally, she gestured to her men to stand down. Vargas continued pointing his weapon at the Warlock, eliciting a glare from his leader.

"Stand down, Paladin!" Lyons grabbed the laser-rifle's aperture and forced it downwards. "Actions speak louder than words. And Veldoran's actions have spoken volumes today."

The Brothers at each other, slowly nodding. There was a general murmur of assent, but Vargas still looked unconvinced.

"We're not in the business of killing innocent people," Lyons said. "Let's not start today, even if he isn't a human."

Lyra heaved an audible sigh of relief, before catching Sentinel Lyons' eye. "So… can we go see Three Dog now?"

Lyons nodded, speaking softly into the intercom next to the main entrance. The doors were unlocked with an audible click, and Lyra, Veldoran, Vargas and Lyons entered the building, the doors shutting behind them and locking once again. A few Brotherhood Knights stood watch behind sandbags, saluting as Lyons approached.

"Good to see you, Finley," Lyons smiled at one Knight with a slightly dented helmet.

"Yeah, was one hell of an engagement just now," Finley replied before his eyes alighted upon Veldoran's countenance. "Sir…?"

"This is Veldoran," Lyons nodded in the Warlock's direction. "You'll be briefed later. Carry on."

"So…" Vargas began as they walked up the stairs. "Did you happen to bump into anyone using high-calibre ammunition? We heard shots coming from the outskirts of the DC ruins."

"As a matter of fact, we did," Lyra replied, pulling out one of the tungsten-cored bullets she had recovered from the assassin's corpse. "He had an anti-materiel rifle with him."

Vargas whistled in awe. "Even we don't have that kind of firepower. I assume you killed him?"

"She did," Veldoran confirmed. "It was a harrowing experience."

Lyra nodded. "He fell and trashed the rifle, though."

"A pity," Vargas nodded. "I wonder why anyone would lug around that kind of equipment…"

Veldoran and Lyra looked at each other knowingly. "Perhaps the answers will be revealed in due time."

Lyra nodded a silent thank you.

They reached the top where Three Dog awaited, and he strode quickly to meet them, his gaze immediately finding Lyra.

"The look on your face says it all," he began. "You're wondering who the heck this guy is and why you should care. Well, prepare to be enlightened."

Lyons rolled her eyes at the theatrical introduction.

"I am Three Dog, jockey of discs and teller of truths. Lord and master over the finest radio station to grace the Wastes, Galaxy News Radio," he smiled.

"And I know who you are. Heard about you leavin' that Vault. Travelin' the unknown. Just like dear old Dad, huh? Met him already…"

"Hell of a flashy introduction," Lyra commented wryly.

"Hey, when you're in the good fight, you gotta give it all you got and never hold back," he replied earnestly. "Always dazzle them, I always say. Always dazzle them and spread the word."

"Good fight?" Veldoran raised an eyebrow.

Three Dog eyed his alien features a little. "You ain't from around here, are you?"

"We'll brief you later," Lyons waved his question away.

"Imagine a picture, okay? A picture of the Capital Wasteland. A lot of brick and rock. A whole lot of nothing, right?" he continued. "There's people out there just trying to just barely make it day by day. Fighting to stay alive and to make something of what they got. But then you got all kinds of shit – Slavers, Super Mutants, Raiders… They all want a piece of the pie too and aim to take it by force."

Lyra nodded silently.

"They can't, not against those kinds of enemies. They just run away and hide or just stay and die. It just ain't right," he pursed his lips. "So that's where I enter the picture. I fight the Good Fight with GNR as my gun. The sound of truth goes out across the Capital Wasteland. Hell, someone's gotta counter that bullshit on the Enclave Station."

"Words don't kill people, guns do," Lyra pointed out.

"You're absolutely right," Three Dog folded his arms and nodded. "But words get more and more people to join the cause. Guns just create more casualties on your side."

"And why are you telling me all this?" Lyra asked.

"I know where your Dad is, and in return, I'd like a favour from you," he cocked his head.

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "How do you know I'm looking for my father?"

"Oh come on, you're the spitting image of the guy. He's been here before, and now you're here. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out," he replied. "Anyway, like I said, I know where he is, but if you want to know where, you'll have to contribute to the good fight."

"What do you want?" Lyra sighed.

"This is not necessary," Veldoran whispered into her ear. "I can rip the information from his mind within moments."

"Vel, he needs the help. There isn't anyone else that's going to do it," she replied. "If you like, you can head back to Megaton first."

The Warlock narrowed his eyes and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "By _Isha,_ you are more stubborn than a crèche-infant. Is time not critical to you?"

"It's more than just about me and my father," she said. "I'm not a selfish person. If I was, you'd probably be rotting outside that portal of yours."  
>Veldoran conceded the point and decided to speak no further. "As you wish, then…"<p>

"Now, a Super Mutant decided it'd be funny to shoot at a shiny round thing on the Washington Monument," Three Dog explained. "And that shiny round thing was our broadcast relay. Now it's Swiss cheese. Without it intact, our broadcast signal is limited."

"So you need me to go find another one for you, right?" Lyra prompted. "Where can I find one?"

"Quick on the uptake, huh," he grinned. "Unfortunately, the factory which made these relay dishes is gone. As in, leveled. However, there is another place where you can find one…"

His voice trailed off.

"This is starting to sound risky," she ran a hand down the side of her cheek.  
>"It is risky. I would never lie to you," he pressed his lips together. "But you got that look in your eyes that says 'I'm the one who can get shit done!'. Your father had the same look in his eyes too. That's why Three Dog is helping you."<p>

"All right, lay it on me," Lyra spread her hands.

"One of the Brotherhood guys that passed through here mentioned seeing a dish in one of D.C's old museums," he explained. "It's the dish off the old Virgo II lunar lander in the Museum of Technology. I want you to get it and bring it to the Washington Monument to replace the shredded one. That's it."

"Fine," she nodded.

He chuckled. "I sure know how to pick em'. You're gonna be the best thing that ever happened to Galaxy News in a long time. You need anything else, just come find me."

"Right," she said, looking at Veldoran. "You did say you were interested in seeing more of my world. Here's your chance."

Veldoran nodded. "That is correct. I would however have preferred a less… scenic locale than an enemy infested ruin."

"You win some, you lose some," Lyra shrugged.

"It seems that my string of losses continues to extend itself," Veldoran noted dryly before replacing his helm.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 24

As Macha strode upon the loamy soil of Hrijnthir, she felt the resonance of wraithbone particles within the flora and fauna around her. It tasted of her psychic signature and fed it back two-fold, nourishing her powers. Her Seer council was similarly energized, their forked rune armour flickering with cold blue corposant.

She could sense the humans nearby through the resonance, their insignificant lifelights inching closer toward the Exodite settlement.

"Humans, always so many of them," she spoke softly, hefting her Singing Spear. It trembled in response to her words, its blade humming in anticipation of combat. "We shall cleanse them from Hrijnthir once and for all."

With a sharp downward stab, she forced the Singing Spear into the ground. Her Seers formed a protective circle around her, and she rose into the air, a column of warp energy emanating from her location. The Rune of the Storm glowed brightly like a miniature sun, tendrils of psyker lightning arcing from it. She felt the power pool within her mind, amplified twofold by the wraithbone resonance of the world, a roiling morass of pure, untainted warp energy. The sky began to darken, clouds forming out of nothingness and peals of thunder resounded throughout the heavens.

The humans had evidently been taken aback by the sudden appearance of the storm, and called a halt to their forward progress, just as Macha had foreseen. Her eyes flickering and glowing with warp energy, Macha released the storm's fury upon the humans. Lightning arced from the sky, striking the human rabble quickly and without stint. Whole platoons of Imperial Guardsmen were destroyed by the arcs of psyker electricity stabbing down from the sky. Their commissars milled about, dazed by the immense destruction, feebly demanding that their men continue the advance, to no avail. Summary executions by bolt pistol were handed out by the stronger-willed and experienced commissars, though it did nothing to bolster morale."

Her Aspect warriors moved onward, stoic and determined, songs of war on their lips and cold fury within their hearts. Lykh, Exarch of the Biel-Tan Warp Spider shrine, led the way with a series of quick teleports that allowed them to swiftly strike upon the dazed humans. Hundreds of Guardsmen simply  
>exploded in a shower of gore, their bodies shredded by the Warp Spider's spinneret rifles. Those who survived were quickly set upon by the Striking Scorpions of Biel-Tan, led by Exarch Julonakh.<p>

Wading through the crowd of demoralized guardsmen fleeing en masse, Julonakh himself eviscerated two of the enemy's commissars who had foolishly decided to stay and fight. His fluted chainsword was slick with the blood of fallen humans, and it seemed to strike truer with every kill, the gems on its hit glowing brighter as he cut down his foes.

Behind the main force were the humans' armour. Large, ungainly machines that made horrific amounts of noise merely moving from place to place. Eldar fighting vehicles were typically silent except when firing, allowing for them to outmaneuver the enemy before placing their shots. This was especially useful for the Fire Prisms of Biel-Tan and their long-range capabilities. Their tracking systems allowed for them to scan for the humans' Leman Russ tanks even within the dense foliage of Hrijnthir. Already, two of the human tanks were immobilized by the Fire Prisms' precision blasts, their turrets and sponson bolters firing wildly into the forest around them. A blast to the Leman Russ' turret caused a catastrophic explosion in the tank's ammo magazine, which exploded in a massive conflagration. Bits of shrapnel from the blast killed scores of guardsmen nearby, who flailed about as their life's blood bled quickly from their bodies. Mere moments later, the other Leman Russ exploded as well, destroyed by another shot from a Biel-Tan Fire Prism.

The humans were in full retreat, abandoning vehicles, weapons and structures in their bid to escape the Eldar warhost's potent fury. Already, their leader had fled in one of their space-going craft, but the pilot had foundered within the confines of Macha's Eldritch Storm and crash-landed into the forest close to their position, its metal body cutting a flaming furrow into the ground.

Quickly, her forces moved to surround the downed craft. Already, she had sensed that the pilot was dead, but its passengers were still alive. The side hatch opened, and several of its occupants stumbled out. All of them were armed, but upon realization that no less than a hundred Eldar aspect warriors were arrayed around the Valkyrie they quickly capitulated, dropping their weapons and raising their hands in a gesture of surrender.

As the storm subsided, Macha's feet touched the ground once more. One of her Warlock aides had brought the two captured passengers to her for questioning. Escorted by two Howling Banshees, they made their way to where Macha awaited with her Seers.

Removing her helm, Macha turned to gaze upon her two prisoners. They were evidently worse for wear after the crash – bruises and scratches adorned places where their clothing and armour did not cover. By the look of their uniforms, she could tell that the taller one was evidently a Commissar, and the shorter one was… a General no less.

"What do you want, Eldar witch?" the officer looked her in the eye defiantly. It was merely an act, she could feel the fear in his mind and see the bewilderment in his eyes.

"I want your rabble off this world," Macha replied in accented Low-Gothic. "This is an Exodite world, we will not have your Imperium lay claim to it."

"This is our world now, we will do what we wish with it," the Commissar growled.

"Such talk…" she flicked her green eyes to the taller human, who tensed at the attention. "Such bold words from one so easily defeated."

The Commissar was clearly about to spit at her when she raised her spear's blade to his neck. "Such disgusting habits you Mon-Keigh have."

"Go to hell, you xenos witch," he replied, in spite of the fact that Macha clearly had him at a disadvantage.

"As we speak, my warriors are finishing off the last of your forces, and your spacecraft have already been neutralized. There is no escape for you or your soldiers," she said. An explosion seemed to punctuate her statement. "And… you two will be spared, for as long as you are useful."

"We won't tell you anything," the Commissar replied. The officer looked somewhat unsure and fearful.

Their minds were like open books, even with all their devotion and piety to that corpse-god they called 'The Emperor'. It was amusing, watching them fumble at planning pathetic attempts at resistance.

"I will rip the secrets from your minds, with or without your cooperation," she declared. "Pray I do not discard you too soon."

The commissar narrowed his eyes, still defiant, while the general bowed his head, already giving in to despair.

"Take them away," she told her aide. "We return to Biel-Tan before the sun sets."

***

Meanwhile…

Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his dress uniform while his adjutant Beltayn puttered about his room, arranging papers and maps for his meeting with Lord General Van Voytz later.

It had been three months since they had left Jago, where the Tanith First had been subjected to some of the bloodiest fighting they had ever experienced since Gereon. Gaunt had been blinded in that fight, and it was only thanks to Van Voytz himself that he was able to see again thanks to the augmetic eyes Van Voytz had paid for out of his own pocket.

For now, Tanith First was en route to Balhaut garrison to relieve the Vitrian Dragoons, who were slated to move forward with the Second Front to continue securing Jago.

Despite everything, Gaunt felt it would be good to see the Dragoons again, and his old friend Colonel Zoren.

There was a knock on the door. "Bram, it's me."

He recognized the voice of his second-in-command, Major Rawne. Beltayn opened the door, letting him in.

"You ready yet?" he glanced around the room before sitting down on Gaunt's bed. "It's almost time for the meeting."

Gaunt turned around and nodded, motioning for Beltayn to pass him his brimmed cap.

He caught Rawne staring at his face for a moment. "What?"

Rawne averted his gaze with a thin smile. "Nah, just getting used to your new look."

Rawne was not the only one who was bothered by the augmetics. Even Shoggy Domor, who had implants like his (though of lower quality), had been dismayed at the change. Gaunt nodded silently as Rawne got up, leading the way to the conference room.

They arrived a few minutes later, after a trip through the many corridors within the troop-ship. It was extremely easy to get lost if one had little familiarity with Imperial vessels. Still, they had been aboard for nearly two months now.

As they strode into the conference room, Gaunt smiled a greeting to Barthol Van Voytz. Around him were the various tacticians, chattering away amongst each other. His old friend, Antonid Biota, nodded a greeting.

"Nice to see you up and about, Ibram," the general smiled sincerely. "I trust you've had sufficient rest?"

"Of course, sir," he replied with a nod.

"Right then, onto the real business at hand," Van Voytz touched a control at the side of the conference table, activating the hologram projector in the center, and a small sphere appeared, depicting a planet and its classification by the Imperium Cartographers. "I know that the Tanith First has been rerouted to reserves for now, but I'll be taking your regiment to Canon Tertius."

Gaunt and Rawne exchanged a look.

"Canon Tertius is just barely within the Crusade zone, and not strategically vital to either ourselves or the Archenemy," he continued. "It maintains a garrison of two of the depleted Fortis Binary regiments, and is in the process of being turned into an agricultural colony to aid in supply efforts for the Crusade."

Van Voytz touched another control, replacing the planet with a topographically accurate map. "We lost contact with Canon Tertius a few days ago, and I'd like to know why. Joining you will be more of the Fortis Binars, as well as the 50th Royal Volpone.

"Gilbear," Rawne rolled his eyes, eliciting a chuckle from Gaunt.

"Your mission is to link up with the Fortis Binars on Canon Tertius under the command of General Lugo if they are still alive," the topographical map displayed a small red dot which flared in brightness every few seconds. "We will be landing at the settlement's main spaceport, here."

Gaunt smiled. "Not Lord General Lugo?"

"He was demoted for his incompetence at Herodor," Biota said matter-of-factly.

"I've selected the Tanith First to scout out the wooded area around the main settlement, and act as skirmishers in the event of any enemy presence. The Royal Volpone will be doing most of the heavy lifting, while the Fortis Binars will be in charge of setting up a perimeter around the settlement itself," he deactivated the holoprojector. "Any questions?"

"Do you think the Archenemy is aiming to create another front at the extreme edge of the Sabbat worlds?" Gaunt asked.

Biota was the one who answered his question. "No, we don't think so. Only two leaders remain in charge of the Archenemy troops within the Sabbat Worlds region, Anakwanar Sek and Urlock Gaur himself, and both are hard-pressed to hold back our advance as it is. We have already considered the fact another champion might have arisen, but there have been no indications of anything of the sort occurring."

This was news was somewhat troublesome. Gaunt had spent nearly the entirely of the Sabbat Worlds campaign in combat with the Archenemy. He knew what to expect and as a consequence, what to prepare for, especially after the events at Gereon. This added a whole new dimension of danger to this puzzle, if in fact there was cause for danger.

"If there are no further questions," Van Voytz adjusted the collar of his uniform jacket in irritation. "I could use a drink."

As the rest of the command staff filed out, Van Voytz pulled out a decanter of amasec from a climate-controlled cupboard and poured generous portions for Gaunt and himself. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about the reroute. It was supposed to be a slow, comfortable trip to Balhaut, a pleasure cruise, really."

"We're the Guard, the Guard is never on holiday," Gaunt replied with a shrug, sipping the amasec leisurely. It was a damn good one, he could smell the aroma of the nalwood casks wafting from the amber liquid. "Besides, the men are getting restless with the waiting. And you know the problems men cause when they're restless. Viktor's got his hands full with discipline at the moment, and Ludd's not helping much, though he tries hard."

Van Voytz shook his head and chuckled. "Dear God-Emperor, Ibram. I would never have the patience to juggle discipline and command like you. It would drive me mad."

"I heard from Biota that the armies of ancient Terra used to operate like that," Gaunt said.

"Different needs from a different time, Ibram," he sighed, before taking another sip of amasec. He withdrew a small box of cigars from a drawer. "Liquorice cigars, from Ketzok. One of the Colonels from the Ketzok Regiments passed a box to me about a year ago. I've developed quite a taste for them."

They each took one of the fat brown sticks, and Van Voytz lit them with his ornate lighter, emblazoned with the emblem of his homeworld.

"My old 2IC used to have a taste for these," Gaunt took a drag and blew out the fragrant smoke, gazing wistfully at nothing in particular.

"Corbec?" Van Voytz asked. "What happened to him?"

"Dead, on Herodor," Gaunt replied. "He died protecting the Saint, Emperor rest his soul."

There was a moment of silence as they savoured the cigars and the amasec.

"To old friends, Ibram," Van Voytz raised his glass for a toast.

"Old friends, sir," Gaunt clinked his glass against Van Voytz's.

***

It was just after midnight when Gaunt finally left the conference room. They had spent most of that time recollecting past events, remembering long dead friends and places they would never see again. It was funny, really. He had little to no connection to his past and his parents, even relatives.

His old mentor, Commissar-General Delane Oktar, had been dead for a long time now. General Dercius, Uncle Dercius, when he was younger, dead by Gaunt's own hand.

It was times like this that reminiscing was a bothersome experience…

He laughed inwardly. The Tanith had long had it worse than he did. It made no sense to give into bitterness and sorrow when his men had continued on with their lives despite the loss of their homeworld.

For Tanith, in more ways than one.

Walking past the medbay, he caught sight of Ana Curth. Chief Medic Dorden was nowhere to be found, likely asleep.

"Ana," he greeted her as he walked in. She had been tidying up the paperwork that Lesp had left lying around, and was still facing away from him when he called.

"Ibram," she replied curtly. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Just checking that everything's fine."

She had been difficult to talk to since her return from Gereon. The general moodiness, fatalism. It must have been hard for his regiment to cope with his behaviour when his team returned after the mission.

Finally, she turned around to look at him. Despite everything, she was still as beautiful as she had always been. There was a moment of awkward silence as they looked at each other, before Curth averted her gaze.

"Did you want to talk?" she asked, her voice surprisingly more gentle than he was used to. A spark of her old self.

"If you're busy, it can wait," he removed his cap and placed it under one arm. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Good night."

He turned to leave.

"Ibram," she started hesitantly.

He turned around again, finding her closer than she had been a few moments ago.

Suddenly, she looped her hands around his neck and pulled her face up to meet his in a gentle kiss.

Taken aback, it was a while before he returned the kiss properly, wrapping his arms around her in a gentle embrace.

It seemed like an eternity before she finally let go, her gaze directed at the floor. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ibram."

Gaunt nodded silently and smiled, replacing his cap and striding out of the medbay. He spared her a glance over his shoulder. She seemed so small and frail in her medical attire. And alone. It hurt him more than anyone knew to see her like this.

Inwardly, he wondered if she would ever recover from it. Only time would tell.


	16. Chapter 16

Just a small thought before I begin – I don't write for nitpickers, if there is a continuity error, understand that this is an AU. Conjecture that the Aurelian Crusade happened after the Sabbat Worlds campaign doesn't matter to me. I'm here to do drama, and I think I've showed due diligence in the rest of my work, so just cite Bellisario's maxim, move on and enjoy. If it's too jarring, you don't have to read it. 

It was a long and tiring walk to the Museum of Technology, beginning in the ghoul-infested Metro network, and culminating in a stressful walk past the trench-riddle mess that used to be Washington D.C's national mall.  
>Veldoran's abilities proved useful in cloaking them for limited periods of time while they snuck past the groups of super mutants infesting the National Mall trenches, but every so often, the mutants would spot them through a combination of factors that led to quick but vicious gunfights that Lyra was unable to end quickly, as the situation often proved too difficult for her to use her sniper rifle accurately and safely.<p>

It was about four hours later when they reached the Museum of Technology. Already, standing outside the semi-collapsed structure, Lyra could smell the faint odour of rotting flesh, as well as the corrupted body odour of the super mutants wafting from the semi-broken door. The door, she could tell, was a grand affair that had seen better days. Its carefully lacquered surface was dry with age and was scorched in several locations, and mere shards were all that remained of the beautiful glass panels she had seen in holotapes of the building when she lived in Vault 101.

"This place used to be beautiful," she looked wistfully at Veldoran. "Then again, this city has seen better days, as it happens."

"I am certain of that," Veldoran agreed, struggling with the door. The hinges were unoiled and creaky, and the door itself was jammed shut with rubble. After several moments of inane tweaking, Veldoran lost his patience and sliced the door off its hinges with his witchblade, which clattered to the floor unceremoniously and raised a small cloud of concrete dust.

Catching Lyra's disapproving look, Veldoran merely folded his arms. "Would you prefer to remain outside?"

Lyra rolled her eyes, but did not comment. It felt disrespectful to simply break down the door, but Veldoran did have a point.

As they entered into the crumbling structure, Lyra spotted a few battered and broken computers sitting on weathered counters, their screens cracked and pitted with age. Behind the counters as well as around the general location lay the remains of several humans, presumably those who died during the initial nuclear blast and subsequent radiation surge.

"The barbarity of atomic weapons…" Veldoran exclaimed, disgusted. "Such ignoble deaths."

"And those who actually managed to survive longer… Who knows what agony they experienced from the radiation poisoning," Lyra shuddered, reminded of Gob back in Megaton.

"The Eldar had discarded the use of nuclear technologies soon after its discovery," Veldoran swept his gaze around the dilapidated, rotting interior. It was quiet as a tomb – appropriate, judging from the skeletons strewn around the place. It shocked her a little that she felt so non-chalant about the numerous corpses she had seen throughout her travels in the Capital Wasteland. It seemed that what her teacher, Mr. Brotch, had taught about in basic psychology about de-sensitization, was entirely true. These skeletons used to be living, breathing human beings, and now she brushed them aside as if they were nothing but garbage.

"Such thoughts serve naught but to distract," Veldoran turned his gaze toward her. "They are long dead, we can do no more for them."

"Yeah," she replied, somewhat depressed.

"I sense chaotic thoughts within the structure. I believe that the infestation of super mutants may have spread here as well," Veldoran mused. "Pity, I was rather interested in finding out what passes for technology among humans."

Lyra snorted. "The superior alien species thing is not easy to tolerate, you know."

"A jest," Veldoran clarified. "Though human technology is rather primitive, being a younger race."

"Is that a concession I hear?" Lyra retorted sarcastically. "Cuz-"

She was cut off when Veldoran raised a hand.

"Did you hear that?" Veldoran asked telepathically.

Lyra shook her head slowly, thinking of the words she wished to say. "What is it?"

Just as Veldoran was about to reply, Lyra heard the pounding of heavy humanoid footsteps upon the ruined concrete floor of the Museum of Technology.

"Found you!" she heard the mono-maniacal words of a super-mutant. Immediately, she hit the deck, unholstering her plasma pistol. Veldoran took cover behind a counter, back braced against the cool stone surface. As she did so, she heard the sound of two rifles opening fire. Most of the rounds simply impacted harmlessly against the counter that they had hidden behind, but some ricocheted around, leaving small marks where they had bounced and hit.

"Their salvo is like a thunderstorm," Veldoran's mental voice was rich with distaste. "Their shots serve no purpose other than to keep us locked in cover.

The fusillade stopped, and Lyra heard the metallic click-clack of magazines being emptied and the clink of dropping casings.

Peeking out of cover, she managed to score a hit on one of the rifle-wielding super mutants, melting his larynx and slowly choking him to death. The other managed to reload and cock his rifle while Lyra snapped off a few inaccurate shots in his direction. His subsequent salvo managed to graze Lyra's side, sending her ducking for cover.

"Damnit, that was close," she ran a finger over the dent in her metal armour. "Too close."

"We need to kill that one quickly," Veldoran urged. "The sound of gunfire will attract more attention than we may be prepared for."

Almost as if on cue, Veldoran and Lyra heard the footsteps of more super mutants entering the reception area of the Museum.

"I hate it when you're right, sometimes," Lyra opined, sliding another power cell into Sandoval's plasma pistol. The general tone emitted by the pistol told her that the pistol was once again ready to fire, and she peeked out of cover again, managing to successfully tag some of the new arrivals with some random burst fire. Some of them grunted with pain, others merely slumped to the ground, the shots probably hitting some vital organ.  
>The hurt ones were merely enraged by the sudden feeling of searing pain, and the confines of the reception area were rocked by their foot-stamping and inarticulate roars.<p>

"Like animals," Lyra thought, once again squeezing off a few shots. The roars stopped, interrupted by the semi-accurate fire from her pistol.

"I do most wholeheartedly concur," Veldoran said wryly. "Come, I do not sense any more foes nearby."

The darkness of the ruin was somewhat ameliorated by the holes in the ceiling, where the dirty yellow-white light of the sun shone through. The windows were typically either gone or burnt black from the initial atomic flash-burn. The burnt panes were the rarity, considering the sheer force of a nuclear explosion.

Surprisingly, several computers were still working, a testament to their makers' engineering skills. Lyra browsed through some of them, quickly losing interest when she realized there was nothing on it except for museum information.

Finally, they came up on a large reproduction of a Vault, the iconic door was cast resin instead of metal, as was the majority of the flashing lights and dials within the museum attraction's entrance chamber.

"So… this is a Vault," Veldoran appraised his surroundings. "I assume this giant metal contraption will shut the door and seal it?"

Lyra nodded, moving further into the exhibition area. Motion sensors noted their presence and immediately began to play a short clip for every exhibition chamber they walked past, extolling the virtues of the Vault-Tec corporation and their product. It seemed almost surreal, walking past the dilapidated confines of the exhibition chambers and listening to a cheery voice describing the prison that had been her home for the past eighteen years.

"I cannot fathom living in an underground environment like this for a lifetime," Veldoran said softly, the metallic edges of his reinforced gauntlets clicking against the handrails as he moved down the exhibition area. "An ignoble end, living like rodents in catacombs."

Lyra nodded. "My father was a doctor. Psychological illnesses were a common diagnosis when he was working in the Vault I came from."

"Indubitably," Veldoran nodded.

The concrete dust floating in the air made breathing hard, but Lyra managed it without significant issue. Her pistol was pointed forward as they moved along, alert to any heavy footsteps that might indicate a super mutant ambush. The artificial voice-overs were getting on her nerves, and it was a huge relief once they exited the vault exhibit.

Immediately, they found themselves exiting onto a balcony which overlooked the Virgo II exhibit with the large dish sticking out of the lander's side.

"So, that is what we are here for," Veldoran mused.

They took a circuitous route down, owing to the rubble blocking most of the staircases that led to the exhibit area. On the way, Lyra had filched a stealth-boy personal cloak from the exhibit, dumping it into her backpack with glee.

"What was that?" Veldoran asked.

"I'll show you later," she replied with a smile on her face.

The heavy breathing of a mutant stopped them dead in their tracks. The remaining staircase was just ahead, and the echoing breathing meant that the damned thing was blocking the way to where they needed to go.

"Damnit," she hissed. "Looks like I'll have to test it now."

Mounting the device onto her left arm, she depressed a control. Like oil dripping off metal, she vanished into thin air, the only give-away being an ever-so-slight distortion that silhouetted her shape.

"Shh!" she said, raising an invisible finger to her lips.

With surprising speed, she went down the stairs, and the loud pop of her rifle going off greeted his ears, followed by a muffled thud and groan.

Another shot rang out, and another, and another, all in quick succession, hitting their marks with precision.

Shortly after, she appeared again, with the same cascade-effect as witnessed before, carrying the large dish strapped to her back, making her look somewhat ridiculous.

"A cloaking field," Veldoran realized. "I had not anticipated human technology to have advanced enough to manipulate light at such a level."

"We do have our moments, Vel," she smirked. "But still, it runs out of power quickly. This one's good for about one more hour at best."

Veldoran nodded. "Shall we be on our way then?"

They returned to the entrance with little effort, passing through the Vault-Tec exhibit once again. The cheery voice once again returned to plague them, much to Lyra's irritation.

As they strode quickly to the entrance of the Washington monument, the both of them heard the distinct sound of weapons fire, both ballistic and the familiar flash-whine of laser weaponry. In the distance, past the majority of the National Mall's trench-riddled center, was the Brotherhood outpost that served as protection for the Washington Monument.

"Damn, we've gotta get there quickly," she looked at Veldoran grimly. "Or all of this might have been for nothing."

She had seen the super mutants' penchant for ruining technological devices, and suffice to say that if the mutants got to the lift, it would be nigh-impossible to find a way upstairs.

With sharp, quick strides, the both of them covered the remaining distance. The weight of her equipment was debilitating, and she was panting at the end of the three-minute constant sprint. Veldoran by comparison was relatively composed, and was already drawing his witchblade while Lyra took a moment to catch her breath.

The size of the mutant force attacking the monument's gates was positively daunting. Twenty of the brutes, each carrying some form of ranged weapon, were taking potshots at the Brotherhood personnel manning the gates. The nine power-armoured soldiers seemed to be holding them off satisfactorily, but two had already been incapacitated by their wounds. As Veldoran examined the situation, yet another two Brotherhood soldiers went down, one killed by a lucky shot that shattered an eyepiece and exploded his cranium. The mutants, however, were merely scorched by the sporadic fire from the Brotherhood soldiers' laser weapons, the odd shot drawing blood and piercing non-vital organs.

Summoning the powers of the Warp, he sent a roiling eldritch bolt into the ranks of the super mutants, sending a few of the orange-green monsters into oblivion, with naught remaining but chunks of corrupted flesh and steaming blood.

All of them turned to face the new source of hostility, but Veldoran was gone, seemingly vanished into thin air. Suddenly, one of them cried out in pain, its legs cut out from under it.

"Let us to it then, mutant!" Veldoran declared, sword braced in a martial stance.

Some of the mutants opened fire, raking the area where Veldoran had stood mere milliseconds ago. One fell to Arbiter-Of-Death, its lungs rattling out what remained of its breath. Another immolated as Veldoran stabbed it in the gut, whilst one more bled out the remainder of its life, its limbs separated from its body with several strokes from the Warlock's thrumming witchblade.

The commotion had attracted more of their ilk, swarming out of the trenches into the gate's main area.

Quickly, Lyra took up a position among some sandbags where a Brotherhood soldier had fallen, taking potshots at the super-mutants.

"Get the device to the transmitter, you fool!" Veldoran bellowed at her mentally. Lyra winced at the volume. "Or this will all have been for naught!"

"B-but-" Lyra fumbled.

"Just go!" he urged, plunging his blade into the kneecap of another super mutant.

Shots plinking around her, Lyra headed for the lift. Just as the damn door closed, a shot clipped the side of her torso, drawing blood.

Hissing in pain, she dropped to the deck, cradling her injured arm. "Fuck."  
>More super mutants were pouring out of the trenches, carrying anything they could use as weapons. Rifles, rocket launchers, even some carrying hunting rifles and bent bits of metal. Still, Veldoran flitted from foe to foe, his strikes seemingly wild and undisciplined, but actually inhumanly precise. A stroke here, a gash there, prompting one of the mutants to open fire randomly as it died, killing several of its compatriots in the process.<br>The hiss of a rocket heading for him was clear upon his consciousness, and with a gesture, he stopped the projectile in mid-air, catching sight of its cylindrical form for a moment before he turned it around with yet another gesture. The missile hurtled back to its sender, killing it in the explosion that splattered the surrounding area with clumps of cooked meat.  
>The remainder had exhausted their weapon magazines and switched over to their crude melee weapons, but it was too little, too late. The rallied Brotherhood soldiers were raking them with a fusillade, their shots more accurate than before thanks to the absence of return fire. It was only moments later that the last super mutant was killed by a clean shot to the heart.<p>

A cheer rang out from the Brotherhood soldiers as the fighting came to an end. One after the other they raised their weapons, bellowing out a steady challenge to the fallen Super mutants to get up and fight again.

"Humans," Veldoran sighed, retrieving a piece of linen from his pack and wiping Arbiter-Of-Death fastidiously before returning her to her sheath. "Always the first to declare victory."

Their celebratory cheers were interrupted by the elevator door sliding open. Lyra stumbled out, one hand clutching her wounded side. "What'd I miss?"

***

"I knew it, I knew it!" Three Dog rubbed his hands together in glee. "I knew I could count on the both of you."

"Thank Vel, he's the one who did most of the heavy lifting," Lyra jerked a thumb at the Warlock, who merely inclined his head.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Vel," Three Dog grinned. "For helping fight the good fight, even if you ain't from around here."

"A little gratitude is never amiss," Veldoran agreed. "And neither is a little refreshment."

Lyra raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sure, sure, what cha have?" the DJ crossed over to the refridgerator, retrieving three surprisingly clean glasses from his table. "Whiskey, vodka, bourbon…"

"Cold water will do," Veldoran replied, consciously making the effort not the append 'human', to the end of his sentence.

"Bourbon for me, thanks," Lyra smiled weakly, walking out of Three Dog's broadcast room to the adjacent sleeping area.

"Well ain't you a straight-laced one," Three Dog chuckled. "Well, anywho, welcome to Earth! I know we Earthlings ain't got much to offer, but I'm sure we'll make up for it with our hospitality. Let me know if you guys need anything else."

"It is appreciated, human," Veldoran nodded, a thin smile crossing his unblemished features.

Holding a glass cup in each hand, he entered the adjacent room where Lyra awaited. She had removed her armour, and was gingerly removing the Vault-suit she wore underneath it.

"Lyra," he greeted, setting the glasses down on the table next to the cot. "Do you need help tending to your injuries?"

Lyra nodded, dropping the blood-stained top half of her Vault jumpsuit to the floor. She turned away from him and removed the undershirt and laid it to a side, wincing as she pulled it away from the wound.

He removed his mask and rummaged through his backpack for some gauze, bandages and some antiseptic.

"Lie on your side," he said, placing the bandages on the cot while she did so, covering her chest with one arm for modesty. Deftly, he wiped the wound down with the antiseptic iodine. She winced a little at the pain, but said nothing as he dressed her wound. He finished quickly and threw the bloodied gauze into the nearby trash receptacle.

"Thank you," she said, looking over her shoulder with a faintly coy smile as she sat up.

Veldoran ignored it, replacing his mask. "I will remain outside until you finish dressing.

With a sigh, she replied an affirmative before she continued dressing, lips pressed together in mild disappointment.

Like a child granted a new toy, Three Dog had already begun yet another of his broadcasts, a grin plastered across his ebony features.

_"Good evenin' children, its your favourite time of day again, and I'm Three Dog, __**awoooo**__, here to bring you some news. Now… you all know that Three Dog's got the straight truth, but I ain't gonna blame you if you think I'm hitting the bottle a little too much with today's news. Aliens! That's right kids, aliens have come to DC and are here to nick your Brahmin and put radscorpions in your bed!"_

He paused for dramatic effect before continuing.

_"I kid, I kid. But seriously now, a little bird by the name of the Lone Wanderer is kicking up hell on the super mutants and the raiders, fighting the good fight and helping civilization re-build, one step at a time."_

Lyra smiled a little at the moniker that Three Dog had coined for her.

_"And this is the good part. It seems that she found an alien, no joke, who's decided to help her along the way. He ain't no bug eyed grey skinned fella, but words ain't just gonna cut it. You've got to see it to believe it."_

Veldoran raised an eyebrow, amused.  
><em><br>"If you ever see the two of them in the wastelands, fighting the good fight, give them a hand if you can. A bit of ammo, rations, heck, even a good word will go a long way in making our wastelands a bit less of a waste. Till next time, children, this is Three Dog, signing off…"_


	17. Chapter 17

A little apology before I begin – I'm sorry that I've been away, the semester has been very tough on my schedule and I haven't had the time to do anything other than work. Don't worry – this fic has always been on my mind.

Chapter 26

The Argent was in orbit around Canon Tertius, its immense holds emptied of troopships and various support vessels. Already, the dropships of the Tanith First as well as the Second Fortis Binars were on their way down to the verdant planet, like ground peppercorns dribbling onto a salad.

Almost immediately, the Argent was attacked by a small force of Aconite-class Eldar attack ships, their green and white hulls identifying them as ships from Biel-Tan Craftworld.

The Argent's captain, a portly man by the name of Navilo, had ordered battlestations, and for the batteries to fire at will. The Eldar ships' weapons were of some effect on the heavily-shielded and armoured human vessel, and their superior maneuverability coupled with the distortion effect of their ship-based holo-fields allowed the smaller escorts to whittle away at the Argent's defenses.

Lord General Van Voytz had decided to travel alongside the Tanith First and their redoubtable commander, Ibram Gaunt, in one of the Tanith Firsts' dropships. It would prove to be for the best, as half an hour after the drop began, the Argent was naught but floating wreckage in space, after a volley of high-yield Eldar energy weapons. Its sister ship, the Argus, had finished dropping the Royal Volpone, removing itself from the planet's vicinity at Van Voytz's order.

The Tanith, the Volpone and the Fortis Binars made their landing in the main settlement of Saran, which had been fortified by the remaining Fortis Binary garrison that had survived the catastrophic attack on the Exodite settlement. The garrison was in a sorry state, reduced to one-third strength – five hundred men with three hundred wounded, and five Leman Russes that were immobile and cannibalized into emplacements by hulling down between the fortifications built by the Fortis Binars during the lull in hostility.

Van Voytz took the main administration building for himself, setting up a command post in the well-reinforced basement complex. Gaunt made sure that he was settled before taking to the perimeter with his troops.

As he walked out of the crumbling façade of the administration building, the stench of smoke and fyceline assaulted his nostrils. Rawne, and Colonel Whitesmith of the second Fortis Binars were nearby, issuing orders left and right. The Tanith, as usual, were carrying out their duties with vigour and discipline, and Whitesmith had obviously been doing a lot of catch-up since the time they had served together on Ancreon Sextus. It was calm for now, but the Eldar were obviously aware of their presence on Canon Tertius.

The third Fortis Binars from the Canon Tertius garrison were under the command of a lank-haired Major by the name of Wyclef. Until Gaunt's appearance, the situation had proved nothing but chaotic for the inexperienced Major, who had lost his commissar in the opening fight against the Biel-Tan Eldar. Now, they had rallied, and Gaunt caught a few disbelieving stares as he introduced himself to them as he walked past the perimeter with Major Wyclef in tow. He had been calm and levelheaded despite the immense losses suffered, a point in his favour.

"It's Gaunt!" one of the bedraggled Third Fortis troops howled, eliciting a raucous cheer from the rest.

A steady chant began to build as he walked past the arrayed Third Fortis, and he raised the power-sword of Hieronymo Sondar in acknowledgement.

"The men are very thankful you're with us today, sir," Major Wyclef gestured to his troops, some of them raising their lasguns in unbridled cheering.

Gaunt smiled. "It's a change from the standard. Is there any word on General Lugo, as yet?"

Wyclef shook his head. "No sir, but a few of my men reported seeing his Valkyrie crash near the Eldar settlement."

They continued walking along the front, greeted yet again by more Fortis troops as they did so. It was about fifteen minutes later that Beltayn caught up with him.

"Sir, Lord General Van Voytz requests your presence," Beltayn's voice was breathless and reedy from the full-on sprint to find him. "Major Wyclef too. Command briefing."

***

It was a quick jog back to the administration building, past the darkened and soot-stained hab-blocks of Saran.

The command post was basically the VIP bunker within the Administratum. The air was cold and metallic-smelling, probably a result of the air-recyclers. Already, Gaunt felt the surface of his augmetic eyes grow cold and dry. He blinked rapidly to dispel the feeling of dryness that had settled, but the cold was still there.

Van Voytz wore his standard uniform with an covering carapace breastplate, the front adorned with the Imperial Aquila. His tacticians milled about, jabbering to each other about possible counters to Eldar tactics. Another tall figure stood beside him, clad in the uniform of the Royal Volpone. His pips identified him as a general, and his round, shaved head and noble profile spoke of high living. He wore a ornate laspistol of custom-make, as well as a distinctly large belt that Gaunt recognized as the housing for a refractor field.

"Ibram, I'm sorry to take you from your rounds, but aerial scouts received word that the Eldar warhost is on the move," Van Voytz was leaning a little upon the metal conference table that sat in the middle of the metal-decked VIP bunker. "In any case, this is General Davide Bronheit Sable De Leon, he's the commanding officer of the Fiftieth Royal Volpone."

The General inclined his head, speaking in the clipped accent of the Volpone. "Good day. I have heard much about you from my second-in-command, Colonel Gilbear."

Gaunt allowed himself a small smile. "Good things, I hope."

De Leon held his gaze sternly, for a moment, before a grin slowly spread across his face. "Not really, no. But I make up my own mind, Colonel-Commissar."

Colonels Whitesmith and Gilbear joined them mere moments later, looking around nervously. Gilbear caught Gaunt's eye, and acknowledged his presence with a polite nod.

Van Voytz nodded and gestured to Tactician Biota. "Antonid, if you please."

"From what we have learned from the accounts given by Major Wyclef and the surviving Fortis Binar troops, the Eldar are here to oust us from this world. Considering that our means of escape is neutralized for now, we cannot afford to lose control of Saran," Biota hit a control, bringing up a schematic of the settlement. "For now, the Fortis Binar regiments are engaged in the construction of defenses around the settlement. The Lord General has decided not to try outdoing the Eldar in a battle of mobility, so we must be resolute in our defense of the settlement."

"An all-or-nothing battle," De Leon nodded grimly, his lips pressed together. "We succeed, or we die… I like the sound of that."

"Hinzerhaus all over again," Gaunt thought. "At least we've got backup this time."

"Our available artillery Basilisks outrange the Eldar Fire Prisms, so our forces can depend on decisive artillery strikes at any time," Biota continued, hitting another control, which showed three separate sites within Saran's perimeter. "We must, as such, prevent any enemy incursions into these areas."

"The aim of this engagement will be to inflict as many casualties upon the Eldar as possible. If their losses prove too great, they will retreat, as has been observed in past conflicts," Biota narrowed his eyes. "The Lord General also has another plan in mind to forestall any protracted engagements, but I have advised him this is risky at best…"

"Ibram, I want your scouts to find the Eldar webway gate," Van Voytz met his gaze steadily. "Find it and destroy it, if possible. If you can do this, we'll prevent them from ever getting a foothold on this planet."

"That does sound risky," Gaunt agreed, with murmurs of assent from Whitesmith and Wyclef. "But… I think it's worth a shot. I'll speak to Mkoll about it."

Biota was about to say something when an explosion rocked the building. The lights flickered off for a moment, then switched back on again.

"Faster than I expected," Van Voytz pressed his lips together grimly. "Come on, let's get to work."

"Gilbear," De Leon gestured with a leather-gloved hand. "Give the order. Volpone fights this day."

"Sir," Gilbear nodded and strode out quickly, donning his helmet as he did so.

Whitesmith grinned. "Into the breach again, eh?"

"You know it," Gaunt chuckled, readying his power sword and bolt pistol.

There was another tremor as the Basilisk artillery pieces fired, the harsh report reverberating for a moment even within the confines of the bunker. As he walked out of the building once again, he could hear the whistling of the falling shells, and the hiss-crack of lasguns in the distance. There was a flash of blue light, and he ducked unconsciously.

It was a burst from a prism cannon. Powerful, but it had expended its energy upon one of the many hab-blocks surrounding the administration building. Those damned Eldar and their profane technologies…

Gaunt drew his sword, its blade glinting in the light of the evening sun. The nearby Fortis Binars and Tanith soldiers were encouraged by the sight, and cheered him on as he jogged to the front lines.

"Soldiers of the Imperium, DO YOU WANT TO LIVE FOREVER?"

***  
>It was around eight in the morning when Lyra finally awoke. Veldoran had awoken a while ago, and was sitting upon his cot, clad in a form-fitting jumpsuit while he cleaned his armour with a piece of linen. The previous battles had not been kind to his armour. Portions of it were scuffed and worn, and the robes beneath were holed in some places. He attended to them with the care he would have accorded a wound, stitching where needed and smoothing away scuff marks with a gentle caress of eldritch energy that reformed the wraithbone components of his armour.<p>

"Good morning," Lyra greeted, yawning and stretching as she headed to the bathroom. Veldoran inclined his head curtly, before returning to his task.

She doffed her underclothes and stepped into the tub with the attached shower, yelping a little at the cold shock of the water when she turned it on. The music from Three Dog's studio was piped all over the GNR building, and the toilet was no exception. She found herself humming the tune of Swing Doors while she bathed, but was rudely interrupted by the sound of Three Dog's voice.

"Good morning, children! How are we doing today? Doesn't it feel good to wake up to a friendly voice on the radio?" the intercom blared before Lyra reached over and switched it off, leaving the bathroom in blessed silence.

It was soon after that she emerged from the bathroom, clad in a towel, before reaching her backpack and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor and pulling her unmentionables from her backpack. Veldoran's eyes flicked to her for a moment, then returned to their original position. Her penchant for teasing him got on his nerves sometimes. Even though he had previously mentioned his lack of sexual interest in her, she took every chance to do so. He said nothing, knowing that she had an answer planned for him in the event he actually said something. It was moments later that he felt her displeasure at having been ignored, eliciting a small smile that he quickly quashed.

"Anyway, now that we got that little errand over with, we can go get my Dad," Lyra said, slipping into her vault jumpsuit and clipping on the armoured vest. "Three Dog told me that the last he heard was that my Dad was looking for a Doctor Li in a place called Rivet City."

"Due south of this ruin," Veldoran nodded. "I spoke at length with the blonde female this morning before you awoke, she apprised me of the location."

"Oh, good, you know already," Lyra tamped down on the feeling of irritation at being pre-empted, knowing that it was kind of Veldoran's job to do that. "You wanna leave now?"

"As good a time as any," Veldoran stood up, donning his armour and helm. "The road is long, and our time is short."

***  
>Sandoval awoke, the taste of Sara's kiss still lingering upon his tongue. Evidently, she had cleaned up quite well after their little tryst the night before. The damp slickness of their lovemaking was gone, and the table which he lay upon was clean. The dressing on his wounds had been changed as well, and the drawstring trousers replaced. Unfortunately, he was still clamped to the table.<p>

His mind turned immediately to his team. A tinge of regret coloured his thoughts. They might have been suffering unspeakable tortures while he was… getting his rocks off.

He sighed, fiddling idly with his restraints.

"Good morning, Roger," the intercom sounded, carrying the whiskey tones of John Henry Eden to his ears. "I trust you've had sufficient rest?"

Sandoval said nothing. There was nothing to say, really. Responding to Eden was not worth the effort, considering his interrogation by proxy.

"Perhaps more interviews will loosen your tongue," Eden continued as calmly as ever. The two scientists entered again, and Sandoval noted Sara's more shapely body in one of the white Enclave isolation suits.

He braced himself as the male scientist injected the Crucinedrine into his bloodstream. The blurred vision lasted for a moment, somewhat shorter than it had been yesterday. Sara withdrew a few electrodes from a sterilized casket and fastened it to his flesh, the tips piercing his skin. He gritted his teeth, before realizing the corona of pain was not as intense as it had been yesterday.

Apparently, Sara really did deliver on her promise.

"So… tell me about your mission, Sandoval," Eden began.

"Roger Sandoval, Protector first-class. Brotherhood Outcasts," Sandoval replied curtly.

Sara thumbed a control, sending him into spasms as the electricity coursed through his body. Sandoval grunted in pain.

"Your mission, Sandoval," Eden repeated.

"Roger Sandoval, Protector first-class. Brotherhood Outcasts!" Sandoval repeated. Sara thumbed the control again, and he grunted again, with a frustrated snarl at the end.

Eden repeated his question patiently, with Sandoval repeating the very same answer every single time.

It was about two hours later when the male scientist called a halt to the procedure.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," he said. "The amount of stress to his cardiovascular system is too great. We'll have to stop for today."

"A pity, Mr. Nielsen," Eden replied. "I defer to your expertise."

So, the other scientist's name was Nielsen.

"Thank you, sir," Nielsen replied, removing the electrode spikes from Sandoval's skin, leaving dots of blood upon his olive-brown skin.

Sandoval steadied his breathing, relieved that it was finally over.

"Can you tend to his wounds? I'm needed in the east wing," Nielsen asked, placing the electrodes into a beaker of water.

"Yes, that's fine," she replied, a bit of her eagerness creeping into her words. "I'll clean up here."

Nielsen left, and Sara immediately put a gloved finger on his lips. She then crossed over to a console and tapped a few keys.

"I've muted the video feed," she said, walking over to him. "We can talk freely for now."

"You did what you promised," he murmured. "Why?"

"Is that so difficult to believe?" she asked, dabbing at the holes in his flesh left by the electrodes with an alcohol swab before placing a circular plaster on them.

"You're Enclave," Sandoval replied. "For all I know, you might be seducing me to get to the information you need."

She sighed. "And here I was thinking we were getting to know each other a little better."

"I'm the prisoner. You're in control here," Sandoval replied. "I've got every reason to be suspicious."

"You know… I was the one who chose electroshock therapy for you today?" she continued, ignoring what he had said.

"You bitch," he cursed.

"Hear me out, sweetie," he could hear the amusement in her voice. "I knew that Nielsen would end it early if it was electroshock therapy. A human can only undergo so much stress before things start to happen."

"How decent of you," Sandoval replied sarcastically.

"There was one more reason though," her voice trailed off. Her fingers caressed the firmness of his left arm for a moment. "All those tensed muscles…"

She paused for a moment as Sandoval tried to process what she had said.

"Have you any idea how wet I was throughout the whole thing?" she giggled seductively.

"You're a sick little girl, you know that?" Sandoval grated. "A sick little girl who needs to see a shrink real badly."

"Well, you weren't complaining last night…" Sara pointed out.

"Well, I'm complaining now," Sandoval said.

"Spoilsport," she huffed, placing the last plaster upon his skin.

There was a momentary silence as she removed the electrodes from the beaker and placed them in a sterilizing chamber.

"So…" she began again. "Are we on tonight?"

"Do I look like I have a choice here?" Sandoval answered, deadpan.

"You obviously liked it last night," she said. "Males can't fake orgasms like females…"

Sandoval sighed. "Look, if you want me to start trusting you, just give me something to work with."

"Like what?" she asked.

"My team. Tell me what happened to them," Sandoval said.

"They… They're in another part of the facility," she replied reluctantly. "I don't know anything other than that."

"Are they all alive?" he demanded. "How is Jana?"

She paused. "… She mean something to you?"

"Tell me," Sandoval lowered his voice. "Just tell me, please."

"They're fine, all of them are," she replied petulantly. "Jeez."

"There's no point in getting jealous, you know," Sandoval rolled his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

As they gazed upon the hulking grey superstructure of the aircraft carrier that was now Rivet City, Lyra let out a soft whistle of appreciation.

"Look at the size of that thing!" Lyra commented. "There must be enough space in there for a lot of people…"

"Perhaps…" Veldoran did not speak further. The way had been long, and all he wanted to do was to shower and retire for the evening. Rivet City was not a particularly prepossessing affair, in his own opinion. Gunmetal grey sky upon gunmetal grey skin, it seemed to be merely another ruin decomposing under the harsh light of the wasteland sun.

Invigorated by the sight of civilization, the both of them strode quickly toward the bridge-tower that granted access to the aircraft carrier. The metal grating that served as a floor was a dirty reddish brown from years of corrosion, but it was a testament to human engineering that it was still extremely sturdy. As they reached the top of the tower, Lyra noticed a small, weather-beaten intercom at the side of where the bridge was supposed to connect to.

She thumbed the activation stud on the intercom, the tiny machine emitting an electronic chime as she did so.

"Welcome to Rivet City, state your business please," a male baritone made tinny by the low-quality audio link sounded from the little speaker grille.

"We're here to see a Doctor Li," Lyra remembered the name Three Dog had forwarded to her. "She may know where my father is. His name is James Kendal."

"One moment," the voice replied. "We're bringing up the bridge. No funny business."

"Got it, thanks," Lyra replied, heaving a sigh of relief. Her first thought was that she would be turned away at the front door.

With a metallic groan and the grating sound of unoiled metal grinding against unoiled metal, the bridge to Rivet City swivelled from its holding area on the side of the aircraft carrier's hull and came to rest on the bridge-tower. Across the bridge were two stern-looking guards dressed in unmarked combat armour. One was clearly female and carrying an old but well-cared-for AK-47, while the other guard, a male, was carrying a distinctly new-ish looking plasma rifle.

As they walked over the bridge, Lyra was slightly unsettled by the little creaks and groans from the metal grating beneath their feet. Veldoran was a lot less perturbed, striding quickly and lightly across without the constant clanging that Lyra's booted footsteps emitted. Veldoran removed his mask, making certain that his headband was covering his pointed ears.

As they reached the end of the bridge, the male guard spoke to them. "We need your name and a declaration of all the items you're currently carrying."

"I'm Lyra, Lyra Kendal," she smiled, adding a hint of coyness to her demeanour. "This is my friend Vel. He's from out of town."

Veldoran's gaze was fixed upon the guard's features. Lyra felt reality shift around her, a mere flicker for a moment, then a return to normalcy.

"Yes... a pleasure," Veldoran said, a hint of agitation in his voice.

Quickly, Lyra unloaded her pack upon a small plastic table to the side. The guard looked on severely, his rifle's emitter node unwavering.

"Weapons are allowed on board, but keep them where we can see them," the guard continued, lifting up her plasma pistol and giving it a cursory glance before setting it down again. Glancing at Veldoran, the guard pointed at the satchel at his waist. "I'll have to take a look at that, too."

"You will not," Veldoran growled.

"Vel..." Lyra sighed. "Just show him what's inside. Please."

He emptied the contents of his satchel upon the plastic table, folding his arms impatiently as the guard inspected them. The Warlock was especially agitated when he picked up Ilrissa's soulstone. Blessedly, she had remained dormant within the gem, not even a faint glow was visible.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Gems," Lyra answered for him. "Heirlooms."

"I see," he replied. "In any case, my name is Harkness, chief of Rivet City security, in case you need to find me again. You're cleared to go, but you'd better keep yourselves out of trouble on my ship, understand?"

"Yeah," she replied, slinging her pack again. "Sure."

Veldoran stared at Harkness for a long moment, before nodding curtly and following Lyra. She looked around, catching sight of the sign that said "LABORATORY" in black-stencilled block letters. With renewed purpose, she pushed at the heavy steel nautical access door that covered the entryway. As they entered, Lyra picked up the musty, somewhat stale smell of body odour mixed in with the tang of iron oxide in the air. She wrinkled her nose, but did not complain. After all, it was a change from all the rotting flesh in the metro tunnels. The entire ship seemed to groan and creak with every single footstep taken by every single human aboard the gargantuan structure. It was both unsettling and reassuring at the same time to be in such close proximity to everyone.

Ever the astute one, Lyra picked up on his unease immediately. With a cocked eyebrow, she turned to look at the Warlock.

"What's wrong with Harkness?" she asked as they made their way to the middle. "You were like, staring daggers at him just now."

"Other than the invasion of my privacy," he huffed. "You should know that he is not human."

"Not human?" she said incredulously. "Like, an alien?"

"No..." he replied. "He is... empty. Without a soul. He is without an organic mind as well."

"You tried to manipulate him with your powers, didn't you?" she asked pointedly. "I could feel you try."

"I was wondering if you did," he affirmed, somewhat impressed. "Your sensitivity to the Warp grows with every passing day."

"Back to the original topic," she lowered her voice as a guard walked past them as they made their way through the narrow corridors to the laboratory. "So... any idea what he is?"

The Warlock shook his head. "Not a one. He may be some sort of android, or a different breed of human that is immune to the Warp. I do not know enough to give you a conclusive answer."

As they approached the laboratory, the air grew damp and close, and the faint smell of rotting vegetable matter reached their nostrils. Even fainter was the scent of unidentifiable chemicals, almost completely masked by the sharp stink of ozone from the electronics around.

They strode quickly down the catwalk, catching sight of a petite Asian woman in a white lab coat tending to a bank of hydroponically-grown plants. Her assistant, a dumpy looking red-head whose face was marred by burst capillaries, was hard at work with an unknown piece of machinery. An elderly-looking man accompanied by a less-than-intelligent-looking bodyguard stood at one side of the lab, speaking in raised voices about finding a robot. Lyra paid them no heed, but Veldoran seemed to be listening with veiled interest.

As they approached, she looked up from her work, a look of irritation and suspicion crossing her lined face.

"Look, this is a restricted area. I'm tired of telling you people..." the look of irritation vanished, replaced by pleasant surprise. "I... It's you! My heavens, you look so much like him..."

Veldoran raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"You're James' daughter, aren't you? What are you doing here?" she asked, wringing her hands.

"Er, you must be Doctor Li," Lyra held out a hand. "I'm Lyra. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Madison Li," she replied, taking her hand firmly. "I worked with your parents many years ago. Now I run the laboratory here in Rivet City. It was all I had left. When your mother died, your father decided to leave with you. He abandoned our work, and we had no choice but to do the same."

"Well, I'm sorry to drop in unannounced, but I'm looking for my father. A friend of mine told me that he came to look for you not too long ago," Lyra cut straight to the point, eliciting the barest of winces from the Warlock.

"You mean... you don't know where he is? I assumed he sent you here..." Li paused. "For that matter, aren't you supposed to be in a Vault? James said he left you there."

"I left the Vault to look for him," she replied. "There were complications involved after my Dad left."

"There are always complications with you around," Veldoran murmured. Lyra shot him a glance.

"I see. I was under the impression that's exactly the opposite of what he wanted for you," Li said. "Well, you won't find him here. He's already gone."

"Would you happen to know where he is now?" Lyra sighed. This was turning into yet another wild-goose chase.

"Well, your father insisted that we return to work on Project Purity. I tried telling him too much time had passed: there was no way it would work," Li explained. "Predictably, he refused to listen to me. He told me that he was going to prove that it would still work, and that he'd be going to the old lab."

"Where's this old lab of yours?" she asked.

"It's in the old Jefferson Memorial building, north-west of here," Li replied. "And if you're thinking of going after him – don't. It was foolish of him to think about going there alone."

Lyra ran a hand over her face, and immediately regretted it – it was greasy from hours of trekking across the barren wastes. "Look, is there anything you can do to help me out here?

Li sighed, looking more haggard than before. "Look, I don't mean to be harsh but I simply don't have the resources to support James' foolish endeavours, or you chasing after him. I'm sorry."

"Come on, isn't there anything you can do to help me out? Anything at all?" Lyra pleaded, relying a little on the puppy-dog eyes she had used on her father when she was little.

"Oh all right," Li acquiesced almost immediately. "I can spare a few stimpaks. It's not much, but it might make things easier for you."

"Thank you, Doctor," the younger woman smiled as Li handed her a cardboard box of stimpaks. "I appreciate it."

"Good luck finding your father, Lyra," Li nodded and returned the smile tiredly. She placed a hand on Lyra's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "And scold your father for me. He's had us all worried sick about him, yourself included I'm sure."

"I will, Doctor," Lyra replied. "He needs a good talking to, that's for sure."

Li turned around, busying herself with her plants once again.

"Now, if you are quite finished with your negotiations, I believe that we should find some accommodation," Veldoran had been quiet for the most part, but he was tired, which annoyed him to no end.

"If you need a place to stay, you might want to check out the Weatherly Hotel," Li said over her shoulder. "It's on the upper deck, one floor up from the lab."

"Right, thanks," Lyra nodded. "Shall we?"

It was a short walk to the Weatherly hotel, passing many featureless bulkheads that were surprisingly clean and well-maintained despite it's obvious age.

Hotel was somewhat of a misnomer. Technically, the Weatherly Hotel was in the aircraft carrier's former barracks area. Most of the beds had been there since the ship was furnished more than two hundred years ago. The current owner of the Weatherly Hotel was a comely young blonde woman in her mid twenties by the name of Vera Weatherly, as a passing guard had described.

The central area of the Weatherly Hotel was basically a bar and a concierge at the same time, staffed by Weatherly herself and a hovering servitor robot by the name of Mister Buckingham, whose synthetic voice affected a thick British accent.

The bar was filled with the sound of laughter and music wafting from the small radio Miss Weatherly kept above the bar. The patrons, mostly residents of Rivet City and some visiting merchants, were engaged in their own conversations, sipping glasses of bootlegged liquor. Miss Weatherly herself was speaking to a scrawny looking man wearing a large motorcycle helmet with a pair of cracked goggles. He seemed enamoured with her in an innocent and dreamy sort of way, a fact which she had obviously picked up considering her attempts to extricate herself from the conversation.

With almost unseemly enthusiasm, she turned to Lyra as she sidled up to the bar and sat down on a stool. Veldoran hung back, his travel cloak pulled close around him and covering his distinctive witchblade.

"Hi there, I'm Vera Weatherly, owner of this fine establishment," she asked, shushing the motorcycle-helmet wearing man. "What can I get you?"

"Hi, Vera. I'm Lyra, and the guy behind me is Vel. Two... err... one glass of scotch," Lyra corrected herself upon catching Veldoran shaking his head vigorously. "And a room for the night, if possible."

"Yeah, there are rooms available," she replied. "Would you prefer a suite?"

Lyra ran through a mental tally of her accounts. "Oh, sure. How much?"

"A hundred caps, food and drink included," she said, her blue eyes shining hopefully. It was obvious that she did not get many customers who were willing to splurge on a full-sized suite in the Capital Wasteland.

"We'll take it," Lyra replied, reaching into her pack for her caps and dropping it onto the counter. The Raider attack on Megaton had left the both of them quite well-off from the sale of weaponry to the merchants from Canterbury Commons, one hundred caps was a drop in the bucket for her at the moment.  
>Weatherly counted the caps scrupulously before passing her a small worn key and tag with the number 010 on it.<p>

"Enjoy your stay," she replied, pouring Lyra the glass of scotch she had ordered.

She handed the key to Veldoran and waved him away, sipping her scotch with a satisfied sigh. It had been a while since she had been able to thoroughly relax and unwind.

Veldoran was undoubtedly tired from the trek, and he left the bar without a word, slipping the key into the well-oiled lock and opening the door. Hardly anyone paid him any heed as he did so, and it was soon after the door shut again, leaving no trace of him.

"So... what's your story?" Weatherly asked conspiratorially, ignoring the helmeted man again. "You're obviously from out of town..."

"Looking for my Dad," Lyra replied simply. "He ran off without me, so I decided to track him down and see what he has to say for himself."

"Oh," she blinked. "Why did he leave? Because your mom was too harsh on him? Or because of debt collectors?"

"Where'd you get that from?" Lyra snorted in a rather un-ladylike fashion. "Don't tell me that kinda thing happens often around here..."

"Oh, we get a lot of visitors," she smiled good-naturedly. "Lots of people come here for a drink, and after a few drinks they tend to talk about more than they would prefer to if they were sober. The last two guys I spoke to told me that they were trying to find treasure in the abandoned sections of Rivet City."

Lyra snorted again. "It takes all kinds, I guess."

"So..." She leaned in closer. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"What? Vel?" Lyra shook her head. "Naww. He's kinda... widowed, I guess."

"Oh... that's so sad..." the ends of Vera's full mouth turned downward. "Oh, does that mean he's a lot older than you?"

Lyra smirked. She didn't know the half of it... "Yeah, he is."

"Well, you're lucky to be travelling with him," Weatherly replied, pouring her another glass of scotch without waiting for her request. "He's really cute."

Lyra stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry. "He's not interested in me. Not something you can force, ya know..."

"Oh... you never know," Weatherly replied cheerfully. "A few drinks... a set of nice clothes..."

"Do you see him drinking with me?" she rolled her eyes and grinned. "Guy's more straight-laced than... than... I don't know... He's really straight-laced."

There was something about Vera Weatherly's amiable personality that was impossible to resist. Even though it was the first time they had met, Lyra felt extremely comfortable sharing stories and gossip with her.

"Well, good luck with that," Weatherly giggled, before turning to the helmet guy. "Seagrave, I'm not serving you any more drinks if you continue hitting on me..."


	19. Chapter 19

It had been some time since he had the opportunity to cast the runes for direction, and as time dragged on, more and more uncertainties were starting to cloud his mind. Ilrissa was whispering to him quietly, alert to his unease and agitation. Even now her soul resonated in tune to his, and sharing thoughts, emotions and fears in an endless feedback loop just like when she was still alive. A part of him dreaded losing her to the Infinity Circuit, if he ever managed to return home.

Lyra did not make his life any easier. The passion and unbridled exuberance the young human showed was commendable, but her infatuation with him often raised tensions between them to a fever pitch. All humans looked short and somewhat incomplete to Eldar, and Veldoran was no exception. It was all he could do to curb her advances. Ignoring her seemed to do the trick, but she often used more and more outrageous means to get his attention, which was frankly irritating.

Ilrissa had teased him about it, considering their own courtship so very long ago involved things that were somewhat similar, though Veldoran was much more responsive to her advances.

As he sat upon the cot, he removed his runes from his satchel once again, the slivers of wraithbone flickering weakly with corposant as they ran across the psionic circuitry of his gauntlets. Ilrissa's soulstone glowed brightly as Veldoran focused his energies into the space around him, the wraithbone slivers taking up orbit around him. They teased the edge of his consciousness, expanding it ever so slightly with every pulse and crackle of the runes.

The room grew cold, and psychic rime encrusted every surface. A deep, abiding sense of connection filled him as he drew upon the immense energy of the Warp. The runes orbited him ever faster, leaving trails of white, red and blue corposant in the wake of their passage.

As he breathed, tendrils of vapour slithered from his mouth, much like the flicker of psyker energy in his eyes. The connection grew deeper and deeper still, and for a moment, he touched a mind that was familiar to him.

Tarashe.

Miles away, the Webway gate outside Megaton flared with energy for a mere moment, its event horizon flickering into existence for mere seconds, before winking out of existence again.  
>Within the Webway, Tarashe and Jaq Draco came to a halt, the powerful psychic keening overcoming their senses for the briefest of moments.<p>

"V-Veldoran…" Tarashe choked, feeling the psychic feedback ripple throughout his body. The soulstones upon his armour flared with psionic empathy, their red glow like a beacon in the sea of blue that permeated the pocket universe of the Webway.

"I can see why you wish him returned," Draco said finally, his ethereal eyes twinkling with undisguised awe. "Such power… Such raw power…"

Veldoran's mind sought frantically to regain the connection. To tell Tarashe something, anything! The runes flared brighter still, whirling around him in a frenzied dance like the orbit of stars around the galaxy's center.

Pouring more and more power into his scrying, it felt as if a storm had broken loose within his mind.

Outside, Lyra lay slumped over the bar, her breathing shallow and feeble. Blood was coursing down her nostrils and onto the well-worn metal of the counter. The taste of the scotch was long one, replaced by the metallic tang of blood.

"Hey, Lyra, are you all right?" Vera Weatherly had a look of profound concern on her face, and she laid a hand gently upon Lyra's arm. "You're bleeding from your nose…"

Lyra raised her gaze weakly, a tremulous smile on her face. "Its… nothing. Just get a nosebleed ever so often. I'll be fine."

With trembling hands and a wobbly gait, she walked over to their room and wrenched open the door. Her breath fogged as she entered, and she could not resist the urge to shiver, not just from the temperature but also at the flavour of the Warp suffusing the room. The air was thick with energy, pressing down upon her mind like a damp quilt.

She saw Veldoran upon his cot, legs folded and arms upon his knees, runestones orbiting him like miniature meteors. His eyes seemed to crackle and flicker with uncontained energy, and like her, a thin stream of blood trickled from his nostrils.

"Vel!" she cried out weakly, crawling toward him.

He continued thus, concentration unabated.

"Vel!" she said more forcefully, managing the barest of brushes against his gauntleted hands.

The touch broke his concentration, and the runes slowed, their flaring glows reduced to mere glimmers, akin to embers of a dying coal. The pressure upon her mind abated, and she breathed easily again. Heaving a sigh of relief, she fell face-first to the deck, exhausted.

"Lyra…" he got up at once, helping her to the bed next to his. He swiped at his nostrils, feeling a slight dampness upon them. Blood stained the flawless silver-chrome finish of the metal upon his gloves, and he cursed.

She was having a less severe reaction than the previous one at the battle of Megaton, but it was still a serious one nonetheless. She wiped her nose upon her sleeve in a rather unladylike manner, but stayed silent, too tired for words.

"My apologies," Veldoran said. "The effect of my scrying must have caused it."

"Ya think?" Lyra thought, eliciting a wry look from the Eldar.

"I am a Seer, it is what I do best," the Warlock said levelly.

"Just tell me before you do that again," she thought in reply. "I almost passed out at the bar. Passing out at the bar without enjoying sufficient amounts of alcohol is not enjoyable."

"Humans and their predilection toward self-intoxication…" Veldoran said disdainfully. "We Eldar outgrew such impulses millennia ago."

"So we're primitive," Lyra rolled her eyes. "You're beginning to sound like a broken record."

Veldoran did not understand the context in which the word record was used, but cursory scan of Lyra's mind made it somewhat easier to picture it, if not guess its function.

"So… what did you find?" she asked after a moment of silence.

"I was wondering about that as well," Veldoran admitted. "I believe some of my people are looking for me…"

"How is it even possible that you know that?" Lyra asked.

"I am uncertain, as well," Veldoran replied. Admitting ignorance in his field of expertise was distasteful. "But I have been unable to re-establish contact with them. A fluke of sorts, I believe. Beyond that, I am uncertain how I can reach past space and time."

***

Simco was an assassin, and a damned good one at that. Since young, he had been trained by the slavers of Paradise Falls to kill without mercy or thought of personal respite.

Ever since he had gutted an overzealous slaver with the slaver's own knife during his childhood as a slave in Paradise Falls, the slavers had kept a close watch on him, unnerved by his unmatched thirst for blood as well as intrigued by his horrific agility.

They separated him from the rest of the children, mindful of their usefulness to them as merchandise, and tortured him relentlessly, teaching him to hate, to kill, and to survive. Every single day, he was put in Paradise Falls' arena, pitted against implacable enemies, sometimes beasts like mole-rats and Mirelurks. Sometimes humans, captured by the slavers and deemed too wilful or dangerous to keep. Every win meant a reward of Med-X, needled directly into his system, numbing the pain from the many wounds he suffered throughout the daily ordeals.

To him, it felt good to kill. Natural, even. Feeling the visceral sensation of a piece of sharpened metal rending through unprotected flesh. It made him laugh, it made his mouth water. Sometimes he ran his tongue over the blade, tasting his victims' blood as they died. He saw the look of disgust on their faces even as the life ebbed from them. It made the taste all the more exquisite.

Eventually, they realized his value as an assassin. He had always been a quiet child, the silence and lack of expression belying his love of slaughter. As an adolescent, that had not changed as well. The face of an innocent boy, it made others let their guards down. It was at this point, Eulogy Jones, the leader of the Paradise Falls slavers, adopted him as one of his own children.

His first target had been a woman by the name of Rena Talbot, a traitor slaver who had been transferring escaped slaves to the Brotherhood of Steel. It was a relatively easy task, finding her and her companion, a ghoul by the name of Nark-nark. It was a simple enough matter to stalk them through the wasteland. When they stopped to rest, he struck. The ghoul had been awake, keeping vigil while she slept. He died quickly, with the blade of Simco's machete buried up to the hit in his back.

Rena had awoken, but it was too little, too late. He stabbed her in the heart, the leather duster she wore afforded her little protection against the blade. He defiled her still-warm corpse as well, in the manner he had seen the slavers do, when they captured a particularly attractive adolescent female. It felt good as well, but not as satisfying as killing. He left their corpses to rot where they fell.

For a moment, he considered never returning to Paradise Falls. The slavers had not given him an explosive collar like the other slaves. There was nothing stopping him from running off and making a living elsewhere.

It dawned upon him at that moment that it made no difference whatsoever. His purpose was to kill. He enjoyed every moment of it, and the slavers had given him the opportunity to do so with significant benefits for himself. He could have all the Med-X he wanted, any kind of food he wanted, and the pick of any female slave to lie with, including Mr. Eulogy's personal slaves, Crimson and Clover.

Today, it was his nineteenth birthday. His birth date was the one piece of trivia from his past that Mr. Eulogy had told him about. He knew that the man knew much more than he let on, but there was no point to ask and cloud his relationship with his adoptive father. After all, he had fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything he knew, to betray that trust meant death.

As he strode toward Eulogy's desk within the rundown mansion he had fashioned for himself, Simco saw the pleased smile upon his adoptive father's face. Next to him stood a man in a well-preserved suit and fedora, his eyes obscured by horn-rimmed glasses.

"Simco, my boy, sit down," Eulogy said, his scarred brown face looking up at Simco. "I've just got a job offer from a client of mine. This is Mr. Burke."

Burke nodded, a wintry smile upon his face. He obviously did not think much of the slight young man, who stood half a head shorter than him.

"A pleasure to meet you, Simco," Burke greeted.

Simco replied with a curt nod. "Who do you need me to kill, Father?"

Eulogy Jones turned to Burke, who spared him a glance before turning back to Simco. "I need you to find two people."

He withdrew a photograph from his coat pocket, placing it on the table. It was a long range shot of a young woman in makeshift combat armour toting a large sniper rifle, accompanied by a strangely-attired man with a beautiful, fluted sword.

"The young lady here is a marksman, extremely dangerous if you're caught out in the open. I only have a few details about the capabilities of her companion. Suffice to say that it is not advisable to engage him in hand-to-hand combat," Burke tapped the photo lightly, before pushing it to Simco. "You will kill them both, and bring back any items they might have on them. In particular, I am interested in the armour and sword he is carrying. My sources tell me that they are currently in Rivet City."

Burke turned back to Eulogy and adjusted his glasses. "You will be compensated well for the job. Rest assured."

Eulogy nodded and waved the statement away airily. "I'm not worried about that, Mr. Burke. It is, however, Simco's choice to accept or decline the contract, I'm afraid."

"If it pleases my Father," Simco's grey eyes flicked from Burke to Eulogy, and back again.

"It does," Eulogy affirmed. "Serve him well. I regard it as a matter of personal honour that you fulfil his requirements."

"Yes, Father," he replied dutifully. "I will leave tomorrow morning."

"Have a good rest, son," Eulogy dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

As he left the mansion and walked out into the Cantina area, Clover caught his eye. Beckoning him over with a finger and a coquettish smile, she sat him down.

"What did Daddy say?" Clover asked, placing a hand on his thigh gently.

"A job," Simco replied curtly, beckoning for the bartender to bring him a drink. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh..." she sounded somewhat disappointed, and her lips curved into a cute pout before a light came into her eyes. "Can I come along too?"

"I don't think Eulogy would approve," he replied ruefully. "Besides, I prefer that you stay here. It's safer that way."

"I can handle myself," she frowned.

"I know you can," Simco replied placatingly, taking a sip of his drink. There was silence for a moment, before a feral smile crept over Clover's delicate features.

"Well... You can make it up to me before you go," she propositioned huskily, her fingers creeping closer to his crotch.

He took her behind his father's estate, and though they were out of sight, Clover's impassioned screams filled the night, eliciting amused chuckles from the slavers as they went about their business.

As they collapsed exhausted onto his mattress, Simco thought to himself.

_This is how I want it to be. Forever._


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Lyra lay awake in bed, her eyes staring at the rusted metal ceiling of the hotel room they were currently occupying. Veldoran lay in his bed, chiselled features relaxed in sleep. He was completely quiet in his sleep, no snoring. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest told her that he was a living being as opposed to a corpse or a mannequin.

Veldoran was no physician, but he had managed to solve the issue of her adverse reaction to his more profound psyker powers, thanks to the application of a form of acupressure that he mentioned that he had learnt as part of his training as a Warlock. Human and Eldar physiology had similarities in terms of blood vessels, so it was a simple matter to manipulate the pressure points on her neck and back to redirect the flow of energies within her body.

Even now, she could still feel the light pressure of his fingers upon her neck and back, a light muscle memory that refused to go away.

It had been difficult because of the intimacy. Veldoran, she knew, had no interest in her sexually, and the tension her attraction caused had been palpable enough for Veldoran to shut down psychically before attempting the acupressure session. Her thoughts, as he had described, were like a wild Gyrinx cat during its mating season, a fact which he noted rather disdainfully.

Even during the session, the mere touch of his fingers upon bare flesh was… distracting, to put it mildly. Controlling her breathing had been easy, but Veldoran had encouraged her to slow her heart-rate so as to allow him to complete the acupressure procedure in as short a time as possible.

With that, Veldoran was able to complete a session of meditation without affecting her adversely, but he had noted that the differences in physiology meant that the effects of acupressure would last longer in humans, as Eldar metabolism and blood flow was much faster than a humans, as befitting their faster reaction times and thought processes. In an Eldar, such a session would have to be performed every day, but for a human, it would be every three or four days. A fact that Veldoran would consider fortunate, she was sure.

She looked over at Veldoran, watching the soft glow of the gem on the pendant which hung at his neck. His soulstone, as he had told her. His hands were clasped together, and she realized that he was holding another soulstone in them. It glowed softly as well, the blue gem contrasting wildly with the red one on his pendant.

Pulling herself out of bed, Lyra stood up shakily, walking soundlessly upon the scuffed metal floor of the hotel room. She reached out to touch the carmine gem, mesmerized by its glow. As her fingers brushed its smooth surface, a rush of unfamiliar images assaulted her mind, most were too fast to note, but several images burned themselves into her mind. The face of a woman, beautiful beyond words, with flashing green irises that seemed to cut into her soul. It hurt just to look at them.

Shocked, she pulled away with a gasp, realizing that she was, in fact, intruding upon his privacy.

With wobbly legs, she stumbled back into bed, pulling the freshly laundered covers over her head.

But still, the images refused to go away. More of them resolved within her mind, showing her a verdant planet filled with ruins that were ancient beyond reckoning. Hands trembling, she closed her eyes, trying to dispel them from her mind.

***

Veldoran strode through the halls of Craftworld Ulthwe, his bondmate Ilrissa by his side. Every so often she would point out an interesting observation on the architecture of Ulthwe. He smiled, she had been an accomplished Bonesinger before she joined the Aspect Temple of the Banshee. From every curve or design, she could note where one Bonesinger's section started and where it ended, merging with the work of another. The Hall of Eldanesh, for example, was created by two hundred and seventeen different Bonesingers, she had told him, and even though they tried to merge their works as best as possible, to her eyes it was as plain as day.

She always had an eye for detail in whatever she did, and it had shown in her bladework as well. As a Banshee, her bladework was more precise than his, even with the long-hafted Executioner. Often, she killed her foes with the slightest of incisions into their flesh, knowing just where to strike an opponent to down them with minimal effort. It was through her tutelage that he had learnt acupressure, a fact he had lied about to the human female.

His mind's eye shifted to one of their sparring sessions, where a single jab had sent him sprawling onto the grass within the courtyard of their home. She walked over to him with a smile on her face, offering a hand to him. He took it, and pulled her into an embrace. She struggled a little at first, giggling, but relaxed into it.

"You torture yourself more, reminding yourself of the past," she whispered to him, breaking out of his embrace and sitting up, back turned to him. Her long, dark hair fluttered in the artificial wind, the scent of flower inundating his nostrils as it did so. "This is not real, none of it is."

Veldoran sat up, his lips pressed tightly together. "For now, it is the only solace I have, my love."

"And what happens when the dream ends? Back to sorrowful reality you go, hardening your heart against the troubles of the world," she turned her head sideways, gazing at the grass while she ran her long pale fingers through the soft blades. "As a Seer, it is your duty to perceive and acknowledge the harshness of reality. Not deceive yourself in a dreamland that your mind creates."

Even as an apparition projected into his mind by her soulstone, the sharpness of her words was more than evident. Like her bladework, her words were incisive and precise. Hurting.

"This… diversion you have created for yourself, it merely magnifies the depth of suffering you perceive," she continued softly. "To dwell in endless twilight, that is walk the path of a Seer. You know that as well as I."

His handsome features were stony, and he was utterly silent.

She glanced at him, those piercing green eyes which he so loved, were filled with an emotion that he was unfamiliar with.

It was pity.

She glanced away for a moment. "It hurts me more than you know, watching you do this."

"I do not need your pity, Ilrissa," he replied sharply, regretting it instantly. In the hundred and ninety seven years they had spent together, he had never raised his voice at her.

"You have changed much, Veldoran," she looked up again, but he did not meet her eyes.

"Admittedly, it has been a while since we spoke," Veldoran agreed. "As an Exarch… My words meant nothing to you except as orders."

She nodded but did not speak. Her fingers continued to toy idly with the grass.

On an impulse, he reached for her hand, feeling its gentle warmth. It felt so real, so impossibly real. "Do you want me to give you up? To give all these memories up?"

"You have never been selfish, Veldoran," Ilrissa squeezed his hand gently. "Please, there is no point in starting now. You forget, leaving you is not something I would ever do willingly."

"Then allow us this time together," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Just some small solace in the moments where I can rest."

"Veldoran, I died the moment I donned the armour of the Exarch. You know that," the edges of her eyes glistened with tears. "Clinging to the past will not help you. One misstep could cost you your life or the life of your new companion."

"I do not care about her," Veldoran grated. "She is a human, I will abide her presence until I have no further use for her."

"You know that is not true," she replied. "And you know that her destiny is closely intertwined with yours. Let go of me, Veldoran. Live again with your head held high, not bowed in defeat."

Veldoran awoke with a start, gasping. His hands were still clasped around Ilrissa's soulstone, which continued to glow faintly with blue light.

Remember…

Veldoran narrowed his eyes and placed her soulstone gently within his satchel once again and fastened it securely before returning to his cot.

But try as he might, sleep simply refused to return.

***  
>Simco had stumbled upon a Brotherhood Outcast scout on the way to Rivet City, just passing by one of the wharves alongside the river. He wore some kind of light armour, flexible but durable, allowing him to move unhindered but allowing him excellent mobility.<p>

It was a simple enough matter to sneak up on him and knock him out with a dose of chloroform that Eulogy had provided to him. Stripping him of armour and clothing, he tied up the scout. It was something he had learnt – deprive the target of his or her clothing and it becomes easier to disorient him or her, allowing for more information to be extracted.

He was fit, that was for sure. Unlike the wastelanders, his skin was fair and unblemished, except by a few combat scars, and his musculature bespoke a life of hard training, much like his.

With a decidedly ungentle series of slaps to the face, he awoke the scout.

"What the fuck, who are you?" he scrabbled around desperately. The wrist and foot restraints were definitely working, he observed absently.

"I've been following you," Simco replied. "Who are you tracking?"

"Fuck you! Untie me!" the scout replied.

Simco sighed. Removing a balisong from a pocket in his armoured leather jacket, he flipped it open with a casual grace, revealing a well-maintained blade. With deliberate slowness, he placed it close to the scout's crotch as he tried in vain to move away.

"Whoa, whoa, not cool!" he replied. "Oh my God, you're some kinda psychopath!"

"You'll tell me what I wanna know," Simco stated matter-of-factly.

"Fine, fine, put that away, please!" the scout pleaded. "I was tracking two people. A woman and a man, travelling together. The guy's some sorta swordsman wearin' funky armour."

"You'll tell me more," Simco clicked the knife's locking mechanism menacingly.

"Fuck, I don't know any more, I swear! Please let me go," the scout pleaded again. "I was just given some basic details, if you want more, find my superior, his name is Roger Sandoval."

"Thank you, but you've outlived your usefulness," Simco replied. With a deft stab to the heart between the ribs, he ended the scout's life. The scream never came, muffled by Simco's hand.

The man gurgled and struggled for a bit, then lay still.

He lay the body to a side without significant regard. The blade of his knife was dripping with warm blood. That would not do. The blood would get encrusted and ruin the shine.

With languid grace, he licked the blood off the blade, careful not to cut his tongue. It tasted salty, with a sharp tang of iron. It tasted… good.

He was in the right place, the scout had confirmed that. It would be difficult to confirm, but the duo would likely be in Rivet City by now, considering that it was the only human settlement for several miles.

With renewed purpose, he flipped the balisong shut and placed it back into his jacket pocket. It was unclear how long they would stay there, but it was clear enough that he had to hurry. If they left the city, he would lose the trail and the targets.

Burke would be displeased.

Eulogy… would be livid.

His mind's eye flashed to the last beating he had suffered, when he was sixteen years old. He had failed to kill a traitor slaver before he escaped from the Capital Wasteland, and Eulogy had beaten him so badly that he was unable to walk for several days. It had been horrible, and Clover had nursed him back to health, feeding him gruel for a week. Of course, the daily blowjobs had certainly sped his healing process. It was during that time he acquired his liking for self-mutilation, a practice that had left scars all over his body when Clover indulged the fetish.

He was fast on foot. It was nearly two days walk to Rivet City, but he was certain he could make it in one if he quickened his pace. All he needed was water, and the rare portable purifier Eulogy had acquired would do the trick since he was travelling next to a river.

If everything went well, he would be back in Paradise Falls in two days, back in Clover's arms and in his father's favour. It was a simple enough task.

***

Oddly, Lyra was the one who woke Veldoran that morning. The Warlock was clearly still tired, but she knew that that it was better that they reached the Jefferson Memorial as soon as possible.

Veldoran seemed even more quiet this morning, his response to her usual morning greeting was a curt grunt, not even making eye contact with her.

"Probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed," she thought.

Their breakfast in the main room of the Weatherly hotel, was awkwardly quiet. Veldoran was totally silent, even his chewing was barely audible.

"Is something wrong?" she ventured finally.

Veldoran's slanted brow knit a little. "No. I merely 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed'."

"Well, if you're going to be a jerk so early in the morning, I'm not going to indulge you," she stuck out her tongue at him.

"We should make best speed for the location the older human female mentioned," Veldoran replied, cutting to the chase. "But before that, I wish to cast the runes."

"You're expecting trouble?" Lyra asked.

"I always expect trouble," Veldoran replied. "This will aid me in gauging the probability and magnitude of the 'trouble' we are likely to encounter."

"Ouch, always the pessimist," she noted.

"It has served me well in my years as a warrior," Veldoran pointed out. "In any case, I find it even more absurd that your species, even while living in the ashes of a world devastated by the folly of your own engineering, would find in itself the capability for optimism."

"I guess it's a human thing," she shrugged. "I mean, it keeps me going even in the worst of situations. What's bad about that?"

Veldoran considered this for a moment. "It… affects your judgement from time to time, I feel. Your outlook is naïve, like a child. It does not do you credit. It detracts from your talents."

Lyra looked at him for a very long moment. "It's who I am, Vel. It's hard to change something like personality."

"But water eventually wears away at a stone," Veldoran pointed out.

"Yeah, well, when I have hundreds of years to live, you can be the first in line to start correcting my attitude," Lyra smiled goodnaturedly. It was difficult not to be cheered by her, all things considered. It was a good feeling that he had not experienced since his days in a crèche. Undaunted by overwhelming odds, optimistic about every possibility. The stories of the Eldar before spaceflight involved much of this. How they explored the seas of their long lost Homeworld, braving the dangers of the open sea and malnutrition just to find out what lay beyond the blue expanse that surrounded them. It was… a pity that he did not have the opportunity to live such a life.

He shook his head. Such thoughts were the province of the young and the foolish. He had a task in front of him, and a mission to complete. He needed focus, dwelling on childish dreams was the last thing he needed right now.

"I know you think I'm foolish and all," Lyra began. "But my father told me this – Moderation is everything. If we temper our optimism with wisdom and logic, we can do many things. It was the basis behind most human scientific advancement."

"The Eldar were much the same in the past," Veldoran agreed. "But necessity breeds realism. And realism breeds bitterness."

"I can't begin to imagine what you've lost," she said.

"A pity, most can't remember," Veldoran murmured. "All the knowledge in the archives on our homeworld. Lost to time, forever. So much we will never know, and never recover."


	21. Chapter 21

The route to the Jefferson Memorial was perilous. Hordes of orange-skinned Super Mutants populated the general area, wielding all manner of weapons, from firearms to even pieces of wood with nails serving as piercing implements.

It was the perfect time to practice her newly-taught skills, as Veldoran had said. At first, they slipped by the hulking brutes, cloaked in the shadows of the concrete ruins. It was relatively easy afterwards to slip her modified machete into their backs.

Often, Veldoran would coordinate their strikes, making sure that they only engaged the ones who were paired up. True, they did make a lot of sound while in pain, but it was easy enough to slip away before the others appeared.

However, it was impossible to escape notice when they found a group of three Super Mutants guarding their only way up a ramp which would take them across the scaffolding around the Jefferson Memorial. There was no cover, no concealment, except for the rocky outcropping behind which they hid.

"What now? We can't evade them, they're standing too close together," Lyra whispered, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"Only one of them is carrying a firearm," Veldoran noted, peeking over the outcropping carefully. Without further planning, he stepped out of cover and loosed an eldritch bolt from his hand, which eviscerated the firearm-wielding Super Mutant. Chunks of corrupted meat rained on the Mutant's compatriots, who howled in rage at the death of their friend.

Lyra watched as he parried and sidestepped their blows with ease, landing blows onto their thick hide. It was after a few moments that she realized he was… toying with them.

"Come now, you can take one of them," Veldoran said in between parries, flinging the huge beast back with a flick of a gauntleted hand. It stumbled back, its yellow eyes alighting on her.

Her eyes widened.

Drawing her blade, she parried the first blow, shocked at the sheer strength behind them.

"Redirect the force of the blow, just as we practiced," Veldoran reminded her.

She did so, clipping the side of the impromptu club that the Mutant was wielding while it was still in motion. The nail-studded piece of wood landed on its foot, eliciting a shrill scream from the creature.

The next swing was easier, she nudged the club away from her, sidestepping and stabbing the mutant in one of its massive thighs, blood leaking from its gaping wound. The creature stumbled and fell, letting go of the club.

She swung the razor-sharp machete down, cutting deep into the flesh of its right wrist. The bone matter of the Mutant was too dense, and the blade merely etched the bone. Nevertheless, the pain was excruciating. Blood gushed from the wrist wound, and the creature howled in pain, grasping its ruined wrist.

Her blade bisected its throat, and it fell to the ground, gurgling the last moments of its life.

Veldoran nodded, tripping his opponent and burying his witchblade deep into its chest. He withdrew it, incinerating the blood upon the blade with a jolt of psyker energy.

"Good, you learn quickly," Veldoran said approvingly, sheathing his blade. "You must, however, continue to apply yourself to your training at this juncture, as any lapse will mean that your form will be affected.

"Practice makes perfect," she sighed, wiping the machete down before replacing it. "Same with everything else, I guess."

It was a short walk to the side entrance of the building. The main entrance had long since caved in, leaving the once beautiful façade marred forever. The once white-walls were now yellow and brown from three hundred years of weathering, and it was quite surprising that the majority of the structure was still standing.

The side entrance door was jammed shut, but a strong kick knocked the door off its rusty hinges, the screws having long disintegrated. As they crossed the threshold, Lyra heard the subtle click and whine of servo actuators, and she halted, holding a hand up.

"Do you hear that?" she looked at Veldoran, her voice barely audible.

"Yes. The sound of machinery," he replied softly. The red slits of his helmets glowed slightly in the gloom. "Do you know what that is?"

"There might be a turret somewhere, an automatic gun of some sort," she replied. "My vault used to be equipped with a few of them, the armoury in Megaton has one too."

"I see," he replied. "Is there a way to deactivate it?"

She looked around, fidgeting a little. "I'll try."

The corridor they stood in had a door at the end, but the main accessway into the memorial's central area was to their right. Right in front of them was a control terminal, the phosphors of the screen glowing dimly in the dark.

With deft fingers, she shifted the monitor from its storage position, tapping away at the keys. The encryption system of the terminal was similar to that of the vault's, thanks to Vault-Tec's buying over of the computer company which supplied these units.

"Doesn't look too difficult…" she mused, caressing the enter key idly.

She turned and picked up a small rusted tin can and threw it across the open doorway. Immediately, she heard the sound of actuators again, followed by a low whine and a sudden, loud burst of gunfire. The can flew back, riddled with holes.

"Accurate too," she frowned. "This is high grade stuff."

"Apparently, somebody wanted to keep this location clear of the Mutants," Veldoran noted. "I sense none of their kind within the complex."

"Yeah," she placed a hand on her chin while she stared closely at the screen. "Dad could have done it."

"But I do not sense any humans in close proximity, besides yourself," Veldoran pointed out.

Lyra looked at him for a moment, before turning back to the terminal. "He might have left something for me. Something I could use to find him."

With a few moments of frantic tapping, she cracked the terminal's encryption, yielding control of the sentry gun to her. She shut it down immediately, tossing another can to make sure that it was well and truly taken offline.

"Well done," Veldoran said, walking through the doorway. He brought his blade up, intent on destroying the sentry gun.

"Wait, if my father left something here that needs to be protected, I think we should leave the gun intact just in case I need to reactivate it later," she grasped his swordarm momentarily to punctuate the point.

"Very well," he replied, sheathing his blade once again.

The interior of the memorial area was filled with machinery she did not recognize. Computers and cables lined most of the corridors, and there was both concrete bits and electrical debris all over the dust-encrusted floor. She walked carefully, not trust the grip in her soles to hold. The damn dust had made the entire marbled-tiled area extremely slippery.

They walked over to a small door that she knew led to the statue of Thomas Jefferson. Even if her father was absent, it would definitely be a treat to be able to look upon a statue she had only seen in the Vault archives.

The door opened cleanly. It had obviously been oiled recently, a fact that reinforced her belief that her father had been here not long ago. Instantly, she was greeted by the sight of more scaffolding, but this time, it seemed to form a circular catwalk around the statue of Thomas Jefferson, which lay behind a layer of thick glass.

Lyra walked forward, entranced by the sight. The distinct hum and whirr of machinery in the background grew louder as she inched closer. She could feel it. Her father had been here. Lived here, worked here. It felt at strange and wonderful at the same time.

The hint of cologne was unmistakable as she walked up the ramp to the control area surrounding the statue. The consoles lining every inch of the room were well-worn, but functional. A large keypad with the standard 12 button design adorned one large console. The buttons were also well-worn, and the one, two and six buttons were chipped, ever so slightly.

Upon one console, she found several holotapes. As she laid a hand upon one of them, there was this subtle rush of emotion, something that bloomed within her at the contact.

With trembling hands, she placed the holotape labelled "Project Purity Personal Journal 1" in blue marker across the side, into her Pipboy's holotape reader.

The Pipboy whirred and beeped for a moment, before playing the tape. As her father's voice issued forth from the Pipboy's mini-speaker, she smiled.

_"Well, here we are again. Project Purity and me,"_ she heard her father's wistful voice through the tinny translation of the speaker. _"It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my daughter. We spent all that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world."_

"You found something?" Veldoran guessed. She nodded and smiled, tears in her eyes.  
><em>"It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my daughter is a grown woman. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. Just like her mother. And as hard as it was to admit it, she doesn't need her Daddy anymore,"<em> the Pipboy stopped its whirring, and she removed the tape, placing it within her backpack.

"You found… a journal?" he picked up a holotape, examining it for a moment before handing it to her. "I… can feel the imprint of his consciousness on these recording devices."

"I think I can, too," she placed the second tape into her Pipboy.

_"So here I am… back where it all began. Project Purity," there was a pause as he took a breath. "God, we wanted to change the world. We really thought the Waters of Life could be a reality. And that's why this is a momentous occasion."_

Another deep breath.

_"Because even after nineteen years, I still believe it. Project Purity can and will be operational. This is just the beginning."_

"What is this… Project Purity he keeps mentioning?" Veldoran asked.

"I'm not too sure," she wiped away her tears. "He never mentioned anything of the sort to me. Except… he liked to quote this old passage from the Bible to me."

Her eyes glazed over as she thought back to her youth. It felt odd quoting Christian scripture to an alien.

_"I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely."_

"I do not see the relevance," Veldoran folded his arms. "Perhaps it is some sort of riddle that only close family might understand?"

"Well, I'm not exactly sure," she tapped her bottom lip with a finger. "It's just that he kept repeating it, like it was something extremely important."

Veldoran considered it. The emotional imprints on the holotapes… from what he had seen from Lyra's mind, there was a strange amount of emphasis on the concept of water.

He sighed. It was highly likely that a large part of the meaning was lost considering his ignorance of human religious practices, besides their fanatical adherence to the God-Emperor of Mankind. Right now, before the Imperium of Man, what little knowledge he had of the Imperial Cult was essentially useless.

"Perhaps referring these journal entries to Doctor Li would shed more light on your father's fate," he suggested. It seemed that the human scientist would be able to follow up on the more obscure details that Lyra and himself would be unable to understand.

It was at this moment that he felt the reverberation of a mind close to them. At first, he had dismissed it as nothing but a feral animal, considering the nature of the mind. The monomania seething within it, the primal instincts, it stank of animal fear, hunger, and lusts. Merely touching the mind was distasteful to an extreme.

But still, being feral, it was still human. It perceived their presence, and he could taste its unbridled lust for their blood.

"Someone stalks us," Veldoran pronounced gravely, his hand immediately upon hilt of his weapon. "He is near, ver-"

A horrific, animal howl interrupted him as something pounced upon him. His helmeted head struck a nearby railing, knocking him senseless.

Lyra drew her weapon, watching as the creature looked up from Veldoran's prone body. It looked human… but the eyes…

***

Simco narrowed his eyes, seeing the fear and revulsion ripple over his prey's pretty face. She held a wickedly sharpened machete in one hand loosely. It was good form, but the uncertainty in her mind would make her easy prey.

He would subdue her, then kill the man. He wanted to have his way with her before she died. It would be far more pleasurable feeling her squirm under his grip, rather than raping a corpse. Drawing his balisong, he lunged towards her.

Her reflexes were sharp, and she deflected the knife easily. He howled in frustration, before drawing another blade from his jacket. It was a rough machete which he used to hack at branches for firewood. It was somewhat blunt, but it would kill nonetheless.

She pulled out a pistol, snapping off a shot. She missed, and a deft slash sent the pistol flying. This would be a close combat fight. He would best her, and then he would take what he wanted. It was the law of the slavers. If you were strong, you got what you wanted. If you were weak, you died. It was as simple as that.

He lunged again, but she sidestepped and rolled, coming up next to the armoured man's prone body.

The force of her motion nudged the satchel that the armoured man carried, and a single crimson jewel inlaid into a golden pendant slipped out. It glowed brightly captivating both their attentions for a moment.

***

"Human," Lyra felt a woman's voice slip through her mind. "Pick up the soulstone. I can help you defeat him."

"What the fuck?" she thought, but her free hand closed around the gem.

The shock of psychic connection overwhelmed her, and then she knew no more.

***

Simco launched himself toward the girl as she picked up the jewel. It was folly, utter folly. He smiled a feral smile, knowing that letting her guard down would be the last thing she would ever do.

Her machete came around impossibly fast to block his balisong, followed by a whirling kick that sent him sprawling into the wall next to her.

Nearly overcome with pain at the sudden strike to his ribs, he got up again. The pendant was now upon her neck, glowing even more brightly than before.

Her eyes gazed at him with clear disdain, an utter contrast to the fear and confusion which enveloped her moments before.

Simco felt fear trickle through his mind, but he forced it to a side and stood.

She smiled, raising her free hand in a gesture of challenge.

He reached in carefully, as fast as humanly possible, testing her defense. It would have worked, if she had not been even faster.

Inhumanly fast.

With a shrill cry, she brought the blade up and deflected the balisong, leaving a deep notch in the blade. The machete, she deflected with a palm slap to the side. Again, her booted foot found his chest. His ribs creaked under the impact, and he screamed.

In desperation, he withdrew a small stimulant pack from a pocket, jabbing it into his arm. It was a potent cocktail of Med-X, Buffout, Jet, Psycho and even a little Nuka Cola Quantum. It was something he had never used, for fear of the possible aftereffects.

As the drugs surged through his bloodstream, he felt time slow to a crawl, every motion seemed deliberate and obvious. He slashed again, but even under the influence of the stimulant cocktail, it simply was not possible for him to match that inhuman speed. He saw her machete inch closer to him, but was powerless to evade it. With inexorable slowness, it slid into his gut, the explosion of pain masked by the Med-X in the cocktail.

He grinned, as if amused, a gout of blood issuing from his abdomen.

The girl smirked as he slid off her blade onto the floor. A thin film of blood coated the silver surface of the blade.

Simco coughed a few times, tasting blood. He tried to get up again, but his limbs would not obey him. He looked at her questioningly for a moment, then closed his eyes and lay still, drifting off into darkness.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 31

Lyra emerged from darkness, her eyes struggling to focus in the bright light. She felt light, as if gravity was a mere fraction of what it would be on Earth. The air was clear and fresh, not the harsh tang of blood and bone and metal and dust that the Capital Wasteland had gotten her used to, nor was it the sharp and metallic smell of recycled air that she experienced in the Vault. She breathed in, savouring its sweet freshness.

She moved her limbs, feeling them brush against fine, silken fabric. The only fabric that had felt anything like that was an heirloom her father kept, a silk ribbon that belonged to her great-grandmother. Even worn with age, it was still smooth and lustrous. The fabric under her skin was finer than that. It was perfectly smooth. Flexible. Deliciously so.

As her eyes focused, she saw a beautifully arched ceiling of translucent crystal, opaque in places and glowing with pulsing, organic lights in others. In fact, most of it was asymmetrical in a way plants were. It was like a cathedral, grown out of tendrils of organic crystal.

She sat up, looking around. The room was constructed out of the same substance as the ceiling, with beautiful tapestries covering the head of the bed she sat upon. The craftsmanship was exquisite, beyond anything she had ever seen, even in the Vault archives which showed the works of artists in past ages.

The only entrance was an arched doorway, covered opaque cloth. It drifted a little, worked by an unseen breeze. The air itself was cool and still, despite the subtle motions of the cloth.

_"Asan Laethirrinai tagtha?"_ A melodious female voice spoke in a bewildering slither of alien language. _"Torienik agla?"_

She turned in the direction of the voice.

Next to the bed sat a woman of unsurpassed and noble beauty. Her eyes were like iridescent emeralds, and seemed to shine with green fire in the bright light. Her long, straight brown hair was gathered into a simple ponytail, revealing pointed ears and pale, flawless skin. The woman was clad in a shimmering gown of silk-like fabric that was gathered at the waist by a sash of pale pink, revealing a slender figure hinting at formidable height considering the fact she was sitting.

"Sorry?" Lyra stared quizzically at her. "I don't think I understand you."

The woman smiled, red lips pulling back to reveal pearlescent teeth. She spoke, her melodious voice caressing the syllables. "I was asking if you were feeling better, human."

"Oh," Lyra narrowed her eyes. "You look kinda familiar to me."

The alien woman nodded again, still smiling. "We have not met face to face, but I have heard much of you from Veldoran."

She pronounced Veldoran's name with a noticeably different inflection from the other words she had spoken.

"You…" Lyra's brow furrowed. "You're Veldoran's wife."

"I am," she affirmed. "My name is Ilrissa."

***

Veldoran awoke, his head throbbing from where it had struck the railing. Thankfully, the helmet and the internal padding had prevented any significant injury, despite the strength behind the blow.

He looked around, fumbling for his satchel. It was open, and some of the wraithbone runes had slipped out. He slipped a hand inside the pack. Ilrissa's soulstone was gone.

Looking up at Lyra, he saw her soulstone upon the human girl's chest, the gem glowing softly. As his eyes met hers, Lyra smiled and spoke.

_"Asan Laethirinnai tagtha, Veldoran?"_ she spoke fluidly in the Eldar tongue. _"Je'mirinur, salai rethaj'inai."_

He frowned. "Lyra?"

There was something about the way she stood that seemed incredibly familiar. Her stance, how her hand clasped the bloodied machete in her hand… It bespoke of years of training, when instinct and muscle memory became one and the same. It was Ilrissa's stance.

"Ilrissa?" Veldoran asked in scarcely concealed disbelief. Even though she wore the flesh of the human girl, it was impossible to mistake the inflection of her speech, the poise of her blade, even the relaxed expression she wore bespoke the serenity she had attained as an Aspect Warrior.

"Relax, my love," she replied in Eldar, gesturing toward the body which lay near him, slowly bleeding out onto the floor. "Your companion, I used her to save you."

"What happened?" he asked, somewhat unnerved by the sudden human turn of phrase.

"You were ambushed by this assassin. His blow knocked you unconscious. She had to face him alone," she said. "I told her to pick up my soulstone. She was willing."

"And it worked? Such a thing has never been done with a human before!" Veldoran hissed. " The danger to both of you could have been immense!"

"And yet here we stand," she looked pleased with herself. For a moment, the image of Ilrissa's smiling face superimposed itself upon Lyra's. It was… unsettling.

"Indeed," he replied cautiously. "Perhaps it would be best if you released her for now."

"Perhaps," Ilrissa replied. "But you will leave my soulstone in her possession."

"What? No!" Veldoran was repulsed by the thought. "She is a mere human-"

"Her destiny is tied with your own, or have you forgotten so quickly?" she silenced him quickly with a glance. Her gaze was turbulent with indignance. "If she dies, you will suffer for it as well. I can keep her alive. You know that."

He looked into her eyes for a moment, then sighed and turned away.

Her gaze softened a little before she reached over to remove his helm, doing so with well-practiced ease. She stroked his cheek with extraordinary gentleness. Neither of them spoke.

"Be well, my love," she whispered.

The glow of Ilrissa's soulstone flickered and died, and Lyra slumped onto the floor. Veldoran caught her in time, cradling her gently in his arm. She awoke almost immediately, looking at him quizzically.

"Vel…" she tensed. "The assassin!"

"You killed him… after a fashion," he glanced at the assassin's body for a moment.

"I don't remember… I just remember grabbing your pendant…" her hand snaked up to her neck and held the pendant for a moment. "And just blacking out. I had the strangest dream…"

"It was no dream," he replied softly, reaching into her mind gently. "This is the soulstone of my bondmate, Ilrissa. I assume you spoke to her?"

"Yeah… she said she'd be watching over us," Lyra stood and brushed herself off. "She told me to keep the pendant close by me, always."

"She did, indeed," he replied. "I spoke to her while her spirit was within your body."

"What?" Lyra exclaimed. "You mean…"

"She possessed your body," Veldoran affirmed hesitantly. "She was the one who dealt with the assassin."

She looked at the soulstone again, pressing her lips together. "I… I think that was for the best. He was close to killing me."

As they walked past the body of the assassin, Lyra heard a barely audible cough and gurgle issue from his bloodied mouth.

Despite the gut wound, he was still alive. Through sheer force of will, he was still alive. It was at once both wonderful and horrific.

"A mere boy," Veldoran murmured. "His mind bears the scars of great torture. And yet… it has made his will strong. Unyielding. A terrible construct."

"I'll kill you…" the assassin choked. "I'll kill you both…"

Lyra looked at him grimly. "Let's get out of here, Vel. He'll die soon anyway."

***

Simco watched the both of them go. The pain was starting to leak through the drug haze and filtered into his consciousness. It was a dull pain for now, but soon it would be unbearable. With trembling hands, he reached for a vial of Med-X, injecting the contents into his wrist. He succeeded, but the needle broke. Again he did it for the multi-drug cocktail. The pain melted from his body, and he shuddered in relief.

How he loathed the idea of dying. Especially so, since he had so much left to do. He pictured Clover's pouty smirk in his mind and smiled to himself. She would have laughed at him if she had known what had happened to him.

The minutes seemed to flow by effortlessly, and he was about to black out when he saw an armoured figure appear at the periphery of his vision. A white-suited figure stood next to him, features covered by a deep gold helmet.

Before he faded in the darkness, he heard the white-suited figure speak.

"Get me Doctor Nyquist. I think we've got a new specimen for him."

***

It was midday on Biel-Tan. In the Pavilion of the Young King, day had turned into night under the voluminous folds of cloth covering the wraithbone skeleton of the pavilion. A lone beam of light speared downward from a circular hole in the cloth to illuminate the center of the pavilion, with Farseer Macha standing within the locus, her battle armour and soulstones glinting menacingly in the light. She stood tall, proud, her flowing red hair free from the ghosthelm she normally wore.

The court of the Young King had convened, the many lead Exarchs of the different Aspect temples of Biel-Tan were resplendent in their battle armour. Juhirah of the Howling Banshees, Lytorax of the Warp Spider, Gillieran of the Fire Dragons, Thaeris of the Dark Reapers, Daulon of the Striking Scorpions and Gyvolar of the Swooping Hawks, they stood in a loose circle, their retinues arrayed behind them in a display of martial might. The floor, though dark, was colour coded to represent each Aspect Temple in Biel-Tan, and inlaid with colourful murals representative of the Phoenix Lords of each Temple. From her position in particular, Macha saw the scowling Mask of Jain Zar and the horrific skull visage of Maugan Ra.

Macha stood before them, her Seer Council standing in silent support beside her. Their witchblades were held in ceremonial guard positions, and the ease with which they held them bespoke many years of training and familiarity. Her second, a Warlock by the name of Kyven, was three hundred cycles, and had been first among her Seers for nearly a century now. His armour was gleaming, the inlaid runes upon his helm glowing with psyker energy. The red eye-slits, like Veldoran's glowed demonically in the dark. His gauntleted palms rested upon the pommel of his hand-and-a-half witchblade, the blade braced against the wraithbone floor. Even standing next to him, Macha sensed no stray thoughts from him. The immense discipline of a Warlock of many cycles, Macha knew. It translated itself into his mannerisms and his battle-form. Graceful but unyielding, disciplined but forceful. It was like standing next to a crucible, the stillness belying the incredible power beneath.

"We have done as you have requested, Macha," Daulon spoke first, raising a gauntlet palm-up. "This leader of the Mon-Keigh is now in our hands. What now of the Exodite brethren? Do we leave them to fend for themselves?"

"To commit forces to the defence of the Exodite colony would invite disaster upon Biel-Tan," Macha replied. "This human who now works against us, this 'Gaunt', he is touched by the Warp. His future is not known to me, and as such, dangerous beyond possible reckoning."

"Are you forgetting our original purpose?" Thaeris spoke, gesturing forcefully with a chop of an armoured hand. "Our Exodite kin are where we draw our strength from."

"We cannot jeopardise the Craftworld's survival," Gillieran interrupted. "Our Exodite kin are not of the Craftworld. Biel-Tan's affairs take precedence."

The entire hall erupted into a raucous tumult, with each Exarch intent on shouting down the other, with Macha unable to regain their attention.

It was only when Juhirah let loose a warcry that everyone grew silent.

"Thank you," Macha nodded at the Banshee Exarch. "There are only two paths we can follow. My divinations have brought up to this point, no further. The safer path is to avoid action, now that we have the Mon-keigh leader. But if the court advises action, I will not hesitate to do so."

There was a general murmur of approval, while Gillieran shook his head.

"If we forget who were are, where we come from, can we really continue to call ourselves the Rebirth of Ancient Days?" Gyvolar spoke softly. His voice came as a surprise, as he had not spoken since the beginning of the meeting. "The day the Eldar turn their back on their kin… is the day we doom ourselves to an eternity of damnation."

His words, though soft, had a profoundly powerful effect on the audience. Even the intractable Gillierann conceded the point with a firm nod.

"Are we now of one mind, warriors of Biel-Tan?" Macha's green eyes flared radiantly. One by one, the Exarchs nodded, pressing one fist against their hearts and bowing. "Then we march to war this day and drive the humans from Hrijnthir."

The Exarchs stood to attention, their heels clicking against the wraithbone floor as one. The sound was coordinated and clear, the precision born of a single, well-oiled war machine.

Though the Court had been clear, more doubts warred within Macha's mind. The runes had not been clear about the outcome of this battle, and it was seldom that the Eldar committed to a battle which had an uncertain outcome. The Swordwind was not a blunt force like the Imperial Guard, but a knife, a blade with which to excise the cancer of the Imperium from Hrijnthir.

To parry or block with a blade would blunt the attack. Such was the nature of the Eldar. The swift stroke that would not require a follow-up. Macha knew this from her time as in the Aspect Temple of the Banshee.

Once again only time would tell.

But once choice was made, the rest was mere consequence.

***

It was nighttime when the duo made it back to Rivet City. The windows and portholes shone with bright yellow makeshift lights. Despite the dilapidated exterior, Lyra was glad to return to civilization. Every part of her body ached with exhaustion. The many holotapes she had brought back from the Jefferson Memorial were now stashed safely within her backpack.

She reached down to touch the soulstone. Every now and then, she would hear Ilrissa's voice whispering a thought or an insight, sometimes serious, sometimes humourous. It was enjoyable to hear her unfamiliar analysis of a human situation, and it was such that they learned from each other with every passing moment.

The unsettling thing was that every so often, whenever she raised a blade to confront a wild animal, certain inclinations of Ilrissa's tended to show up in her bladework. The precise incisions, the battle-lust… It had begun to seep into her actions. Veldoran had noticed as well, and she could sense the concern he felt. Ilrissa had been his wife, after all.

The previous desire for Veldoran she felt had now subsided to a quiet affection, something she had felt was part of Ilrissa as well.

"Liathar," was the word in Eldar that popped into her head whenever she looked at Veldoran. It was the Eldar word for husband, or lover.

As they walked into the Weatherly Hotel, Vera Weatherly nodded at them with a friendly smile which Lyra returned. Veldoran, as was his custom, retired immediately to their room without comment, whilst Lyra took a seat at the bar.

The bar was mostly empty at this time of night, except for a short man wearing a set of dirty overalls nursing a drink at one side of the bar.

"You look like hell," Vera smiled. "Rough day out in the Wasteland?"

"Yeah, but it was worth it I guess," Lyra shrugged. "I didn't find my Dad, but I found some holotapes which he made before he moved on. Gimme something strong."

Vera poured her a drink out of an unmarked bottle, the greenish liquid shimmering in the shot glass ominously.

"The hell is that?" Lyra stared at the glass, unwilling to actually pick it up. She could hear Ilrissa's suppressed giggle in her mind.

"You said something strong, this is the strongest I have," she replied impishly.  
>Lyra downed it all with gusto, the taste rushing through her mouth and into her nostrils, burning her sinuses.<p>

"Fuck," she swore, coughly frantically. Vera was overcome with laughter, tears streaming from her eyes. "What the hell did you put in that thing?"

"It's something Seagrave cooked up in his moonshine distiller. Some of the men here have gotten a taste for it."

"Jeez, I feel like someone just hit me over the head with a sledgehammer," Lyra shook her head to clear it, but to no avail. "I think I'll go to bed now…"

"I'll put it on your tab," Vera winked.

Stumbling to her room, she fell into her cot without so much as a glance in Veldoran's direction.


	23. Chapter 23

As Veldoran meditated quietly upon the sweet-smelling cot within their room, he felt the flicker of Ilrissa's soulstone as it lay upon Lyra's breast. The reverberation of an activating consciousness, he knew. A pang of jealousy shot through him, something that he damped down immediately. She had been right about his need to move on. His obsession with speaking to her was affecting his judgement, something which would not have manifested itself if he had been able to mourn her passing and release her spirit into the Infinity Circuit.

Opening his eyes, he saw the softly glowing gem perched on her bosom. Her closed eyes and faint smile told him that she was already fast asleep, and a quick glance at her thoughts told him that Ilrissa was deep in conversation with the human girl.

He refrained from prying further. Even within Lyra's untrained mind, Ilrissa would still sense his psychic probing easily. Even though it was trying his patience, he decided to trust his wife's intuition. Even in death, he knew above all that she still loved him with all her soul.

There was something in Lyra's eyes now that bespoke that affection. No longer the nigh unbearable heat of attraction, but the calm warmth of quiet affection. Affection borne of years of shared experience. He was glad for the change, despite it all.

As he lay upon the cot, he sighed, bidding a silent good night to his wife as he did so.

***

Lyra awoke with a start, feeling the same silken material upon her skin as before. She sat up and looked around, already familiar with the location.  
>As she climbed out of the silken sheets and stood up, she felt the cool stone beneath her feet, or rather, the same organic-looking crystal that the entire room was constructed out of.<p>

Holding the gossamer door-covering with one hand, she exited into a spacious living area. Cushioned seats and carpets of varying colours adorned the living area's sides and a mosaic of coloured crystals was inlaid into the center in a dizzyingly complex geometrical pattern. Light streamed in through a clear, organically shaped window, with dark blue drapes adorning the sides.

The door was a piece of translucent glass of exquisite design, with the translucency of rock crystal but none of the overt flaws. It looked natural as well, much like the rest of the house.

In the distance, she heard the rustle of grass and leaves in the wind, almost in a manner eerily similar to music. The sheer concordant harmony of it all left her quite overwhelmed. It was simply beyond anything she had ever seen.

"This is my home," she heard Ilrissa's voice from behind her. "Or rather, my memories of it."

"Everything's so… perfect," Lyra replied, running a hand over the silken cushions appreciatively. "Beautiful. I can't really describe it."

"My husband is the head of the Seer Council, second only to Farseer Idranel," she replied. "And someone in a position of such prestige would naturally have a home equal to his rank."

Lyra nodded quietly, walking around the living area idly. "Anyway… what are you doing in my dream?"

Ilrissa smiled slightly. "What are you doing in mine?"

Lyra raised an eyebrow quizzically. "It's my dream, right?"

"Does it matter?" Ilrissa asked, bemused.

"I guess not…" Lyra conceded. "But the question does remain. What are we doing here?"

"I promised Veldoran I would look after you," she explained, fussing about with a large lacquered wooden cabinet adjoining the living area. "And wearing your flesh during times of danger is especially dangerous for the both of us."

Finally, the cabinet opened, revealing a large walk-in wardrobe interior. Glancing within, she saw four sets of exquisitely crafted armour. Two of them were similar in design to what she had seen Veldoran wear, with the red-slit eyes and mouth-less mask. One of the two, she realized, was identical to the one Veldoran wore, with the gold-inlaid filigree and prongs emerging from his shoulders, while the other seemed to be more subdued, without the prongs and incorporating less gems into its design.

The other two were noticeably more form-fitting, evidently built to cover a female body. Their tall helms displayed mouths open in a howling rictus of rage, red manes flowing from the back of the helms.

In front of the sets of armour stood three blades sheathed in their scabbards. Lyra recognized one of them as Veldoran's personal weapon, the one with the broad, fluted blade and a jewelled hilt.

Ilrissa lifted up the other two, which were curved blades with hilts the colour of bone, a single red gem inlaid into the guard and a blue one on each of the pommels. The hilts' smooth grips had a single button just below the guard.

"I will teach you, Lyra," Ilrissa threw her one of the sheathed blades, which she caught deftly. "For the gift of saving my husband, I grant you this service. You will walk the path of the Banshee as I did in life. May Khaine guide our blades this day."

***

Lyra awoke to the sounds of activity filtering through the sonorous metal of their room within the Weatherly Hotel. Outside, she heard the sound of boots and shoes upon the worn metal deck, of laughter and conversation, and of food being prepared in the open-kitchen which Vera used.

Her stomach growled loudly.

Looking at her Pipboy, she cursed. It was already 10 am, and Veldoran had evidently not seen fit to wake her, considering the fact his cot was already empty.

Irritated, she went into the adjoining bathroom to for a morning shower before leaving the room.

Vera greeted her with her usual smile and nod, pointing to a plate of scrambled eggs and Brahmin bacon. Veldoran had evidently finished breakfast, and was quietly munching on a hydroponically grown carrot stick.

He spared her a glance as she sat down and dug in. "Finally awake I see."

"You didn't wake me up," she replied, trying to keep the accusatory tone from entering into her speech.

"You were tired," Veldoran blinked. "I felt it best that you took the time to rest."

She nodded, turning back to her food.

"Have you reviewed the recordings you retrieved from the laboratory?" he asked conversationally. It was unusual for him to be this chatty in the morning.

"Yeah, the last part of the tape was corrupted. I set my Pip-boy to recover the data before I slept," she nodded. "It should be done by now."

The tapes before had dealt with the progress of his resurrection of "Project Purity", something he had done in vain for the past month or two. He spoke of breaking into the Overseer's office whilst back in the Vault, searching for a means to make his dream a reality, and discovering a miracle device known as the GECK, or the Garden of Eden Creation kit, fashioned by the creators of the Vaults as a means for humans to terraform the radiation-addled wasteland into a comfortable environment. It had been created by a man by the name of Stanislaus Braun, some sort of scientist working for Vault-Tec during the Great War.

Tapping a few controls on her Pipboy, the sound of her father's voice began to issue from the little speaker grille on the side of the device, somewhat distorted by static.

_"…I did some digging and discovered Braun's name on the reservation list for a Vault 112. I'm no slouch, but this man, he could have easily succeeded where I failed. Does his collected knowledge remain within the halls of Vault 112? Journals, holotapes, computer records, maybe even experiments? If I could gain access to just a fraction of Braun's genius, Project Purity would become a reality…"_

"Huh," she blinked. "Another Vault."

_"…I'm off to Vault 112 to search for anything of Braun's that might help me get this purifier up and running. All I know is that it's West of some place called "Evergreen Mills," and it's well hidden in some sort of garage. But I'll find it, I have to. It's so close, but that's the story of Project Purity, isn't it? An eternity of "almost there's". Let's see if Braun has the missing puzzle piece."_

"Vault 112…" she said slowly, as she was tasting the sounds.

_"And Madison, if you're listening to this and need to find me, the location to Vault 112 is embedded in the data track of this holotape."_

As soon as the recording finished, the Pipboy made a slight grinding noise, and the screen shifted to display the map. A small icon had appeared on the South-west quadrant of the available map, marked "Smith Casey's Garage".

"That was rather straightforward," Veldoran commented tersely.

"Yeah, it was," she chuckled. "It's nice to be given the answer straight off the bat, for once."

"Definitively," he agreed.

Just as he finished, Lyra felt a hand place itself on her shoulder. "Hey, Lyra-"

Entirely on instinct, she drew her machete and placed it firmly at the intruder's neck.

Eyes wide with shock and a fair amount of fear, Seagrave Holmes yanked his hand off her shoulder. "Oh God."

"Oh, Seagrave. I'm so sorry," Lyra flushed in embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me."

Veldoran hid a smile. The last time he had did that to Ilrissa…

"D-Doctor Li wanted to speak with you… she sent me to find you," Holmes stammered, rubbing at his neck nervously.

"Oh, okay," she nodded. "Thanks, Seagrave."

"Ehehe…" he chuckled nervously with an insincere smile on his face. "No problem."

After a long and leisurely breakfast, they visited the laboratory where Madison Li awaited. Dishevelled and with dark circles under her eyes, she greeted them with a less-than-enthusiastic smile.

"So… I assume you weren't able to find James," she said, arms akimbo.

"No, but I know where he went," she replied. "Vault 112, he was searching for someone called Stanislaus Braun."

"Braun?" Li shook her head. "He'll likely be dead by now."

"I dunno," she shrugged. "That's where his journal said he'd gone."

"I see," Li nodded. "When will you be leaving?"

"In an hour or two," Lyra glanced at Veldoran for a moment, who offered a noncommittal gesture in return.

"Bring him back in one piece," she gave Lyra a friendly squeeze on the arm. "And tell him to stop chasing that whacky dream of his."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that, actually," Lyra said. "His journal holotapes mentioned something about Project Purity, something you said you worked with him on."

The older woman's eyes hardened for a moment, before she looked away.

"Project Purity… "she sighed. "It was a crazy dream. Finding a way to convert irradiated water into clean water. Enough for the entire wasteland."

She turned to face Lyra. "The reason why we gave up on it… was because of you."

"Me?" Lyra was stunned. "What has this gotta do with me?"

"When your mother died giving birth to you," she explained. "Something in your father just… broke. He just couldn't find it in him to carry on. So he brought you to the Vault you grew up in."

"I always thought… I was born in the Vault," Lyra frowned, deep in thought.

Li shook her head and smiled sadly. "No, you were born in the Jefferson Memorial's basement level, in the medical bay. I was there with your father and mother."

Lyra was silent. The news was just beginning to sink in.

Li walked over to a metal cabinet and withdrew a set of old and worn holotapes. "These belonged to your father. You should listen to them. It'll give you some idea of what we were working on."

"Thank you," Lyra replied quietly. "I will, don't worry."

Li nodded. "Take care of yourself… I'm sure I don't have to tell you that it'll get rough out there."

She looked over to Veldoran, who had been standing quietly at one side, unwilling to intrude on the conversation. "Take care of her, please."

"I will," Veldoran agreed, placing a hand on Lyra's shoulder. "We will not keep you from your work any longer."

***

Location: Canon Tertius/Hrijnthir, Central Garrison.

Scout Sergeant Mkoll strode swiftly across the central parade square to Garrison Command, where Colonel-Commissar Gaunt and Lord General Van Voytz awaited, no doubt still planning despite the time of night. His camo cape was wet and streaked with mud from his recent scouting run into the wilderness with Bonin and Jajjo.

After the capture of General Lugo, the Eldar had literally disappeared, probably retreating into the Webway from which they had struck from. However, Lord General Van Voytz was aware of the Exodite presence on the planet, and the fact that they were loath to leave behind their world. Gaunt had tasked him to find their main settlement, which was something that had failed to register on orbital scans by their now-destroyed transport vessel.

It had been a tiring twelve hour hunt, and the main settlement was nowhere to be found. Van Voytz had warned of Eldar psyker trickery, something which Mkoll had experienced firsthand in the Monthax Campaign, where the Eldar of Dolthe used psychic guile to convince the Tanith to fight alongside their own warriors.

He walked into the command area, where the Lord General, Gaunt and a high-born Volpone officer were discussing troop allocations in front of a hologram projector. The tacticians milled around haphazardly, pointing at various abstract points on the projection, to which the three paid no heed.

"Colonel-Commissar," Mkoll stopped short of the three and saluted as they turned.

"Any word, Mkoll?" Gaunt removed his peaked cap and ran a hand through his hair.

"There's nothing out there, sir," Mkoll replied. "No troop movement, no evidence of any main settlement. They're either hiding it really well, or the settlement is a lot farther away than we thought."

"And without the ship… we can't verify anything with orbital scans," Van Voytz growled.

"Has the fleet replied to our request for assistance?" General De Leon regarded Van Voytz carefully. "It has been two days since they acknowledged receipt of the message."

"They have two ships en route, but it'll take the better part of a week for them to get here," Van Voytz replied irritably. "That means relying on base-camp supplies till then."

"Digging in and waiting," De Leon nodded grimly. "Matching Eldar mobility in this terrain is neither logical nor warranted."

"It'll be a damned meat-grinder once the Eldar show up," Gaunt shook his head. "And there'll be nowhere to retreat to."

"An odd statement, coming from a Commissar of all people," De Leon snorted.  
>Gaunt cracked a small smile. "As a Commissar, retreat should be anathema to me, but as a Colonel, I must understand the value of a tactical withdrawal."<p>

"Sir, if I may," Mkoll cleared his throat. "I'd like to set up a rotating patrol of scouts for the next few days. Caober, Leyr and Maggs have already left on a follow-up patrol to the northern wilderness."

Gaunt nodded. "Keep me and Tactician Biota apprised of anything you find."

"Yes sir," the bearded Tanith Sergeant left as quietly as he came.

Gaunt turned back to the holodisplay, grimly assessing for the fifteenth time the list of casualties outline in red at the side. He spotted a few Verghast names in the mix, but the list was mainly from the Belladon side of the regiment. Major Baskevyl himself had been injured while seeing off the previous Eldar assault, when a stray shuriken buried itself in his thigh while he was scrambling for cover.

"I brought you some recaf, sir," Beltayn's voice jolted Gaunt out of his reverie.

"Thank you, Bel," Gaunt nodded. "Anything awry?"

"Nothing yet, sir," Beltayn replied. "Dorden wanted me to tell you that Major Baskevyl's in a bad way. He'll live, but he won't be fighting in the coming engagement."

"Feth," Gaunt closed his eyes, then opened them again. The feel of cold ceramic on the flesh of his eyelids still took some getting used to. "Tell Captain Kereval to take command for now and work closely with Gilbear at the East Wall. If there are any problems, tell Hark to deal with it."

"There will be no problems," De Leon assured him. "I have spoken to Gilbear already."

Gaunt nodded. The new Volpone General, while somewhat terse with a touch of mild arrogance, had been quite cooperative despite the history of rivalry between the Tanith and the Volpone Bluebloods. Still, it heartened him to see some old faces, such as Culcis, a trooper who had been a friend of Corbec's during the Monthax campaign. The lad was now a Captain, of all things. It made him feel a little old, but it heartened him that his decision to save the Volpone injured during the Monthax campaign had alleviated the old tensions.  
>Right now, it seemed that all they could do was wait for the Eldar to return.<p>

God-Emperor knew that the worst part of war was the waiting.

Taking a sip of his recaf, Gaunt thought wryly. _"Definitely the waiting."_


	24. Chapter 24

The attack started at the break of dawn. Many of the soldiers were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes when the first sounds of shuriken fire reached their ears.

Like a whistling song of death, thousands of monomolecular discs sped toward the Imperial lines, many of them ricocheting off metal girders or burying themselves deep into sandbags carried into place hastily a few days before. Some of them shredded foliage and filled the air with the spicy reeking scent of shredded plant matter.

A few of them sliced into flesh, some passing cleanly through it, but many others lodging themselves into bone and cartilage, severing soul and body as they did so.

Dalin Criid saw one particularly lucky shot cave in the face of a Blueblood soldier standing half a metre away, contorting his features into a gory grimace. He fell quietly, the sound of other shuriken whizzing through the air with reckless abandon masking the soft thud entirely as the big soldier fell face-first into the dirt.

"Better face-down than face up," he thought wryly.

"Alarm! Alarm!" Dalin heard the big Blueblood Colonel bellow. Gilbear, if he remembered correctly.

The Bluebloods quickly manned the heavy weapons on the trailing edges of the main column, the heavy stubbers chattering away. Despite the richer, meatier roar of the stubber, Dalin knew that the fire was merely an annoyance for the Eldar. For one, he could not even spot a single Eldar in the dense foliage yet.

"Men of Tanith, stand and repulse!" Dalin heard Gaunt's voice clearly over the weapons fire.

Fearless, the Colonel-Commissar walked forward, his green eyes blazing with defiance. His sword was raised and ready, the power field crackling in the dim morning light.

All around him, Tanith, Verghast and Belladon, roared with battle lust, something that he could not help but feel overwhelmed by. The whine of lascannons and the snapcrack of the Imperial lasguns filled the air. Dalin raised his lasgun, but could find no targets to bring down. As he gazed into the foliage, squinting, he caught a glint of light from within, like a flash of light off a piece of glass-

"Sir, get down!" he screamed, tripping his commanding officer with nary a thought. Gaunt fell ungracefully into the trench, soil staining the deep crimson of his coat. A shot whined past, the blue beam scorching through the air right where Gaunt had stood a mere second before. Another shot whined past, grazing Colonel Gilbear's shoulder as he jerked away. The big Blueblood stared disdainfully at it, before continuing to yell orders at the men around him.

Gaunt stared at him with unconcealed amusement as he picked up his peaked cap and brushed the loamy soil off the brim.

"Sorry sir," Dalin grinned. "It was either your dignity or your life."

Gaunt brushed himself off and nodded at him with a smile.

A low hum began to build in the air, oddly musical in quality. There was also an odd feeling in the air that made the hairs on the back of his head stand on end, akin to static electricity.

"Sir… I think-"

Before he finished his sentence, the hum built to a crescendo, and a crackling arc of energy crashed into an adjacent trench, utterly annihilating the soldiers who stood there. One of them was the Verghastite Captain Kereval, whose detached head rolled toward Gaunt like a macabre soccer ball.

"We need to disable the Eldar artillery soon, or this action will be our last," Gaunt grimaced. He spotted Meryn's temporary Vox operator, a young Belladon by the name of Anders. "Anders, get on the vox and get me sergeant Mkoll. It's urgent."

"Sir, the sergeant left on patrol two hours ago. He's outside of microbead range, I've been trying to contact him ever since the attack started," Anders replied, clutching the vox headset tightly. The young man's face was pale, despite the typically dark Belladon complexion. "I'm sorry, Sir. We're on our own for now."

"Feth take these Eldar," Gaunt swore under his breath, hoping to the God-Emperor that Mkoll would know what to do.

***

With practiced ease, scout sergeant Mkoll and his team of two scouts edged through the dense undergrowth like moonlight across water. The sound of weapons fire resounded in the distance, a mix of musical shrieks and the snap-cracking of lasguns on full-auto.

"They've started their attack," Mkoll thought silently.

He froze, hearing the microbead crackle in his ear. "Sco- Mko- please respond!"

"This is Mkoll," he replied, tapping his microbead.

"Resp- Eldar dis- cannons! Rep- find Eld-"

The link went ominously dead.

"Feth," Caober had heard it too. "What now, chief?"

The bearded Tanith glanced at the third member of his team. "Maggs, you still got your tube charges, right?"

"Yeah, and they're fething heavy," the Belladon scout grumbled.

"You won't be carrying them for much longer," he replied tersely. "Come on, we need to find the Eldar support forces. We won't be able to do much damage to their main attack force, but we might be able to take out their artillery…"

A low musical hum began to build in the air once again.

"And I think that's our cue," Caober pointed at the slow growing glow to the west of them.

A shrieking crackle broke the general silence of the wood, followed by a strobing flash that lit up the sky.

"Come on," Mkoll gestured. "We haven't got any time to waste."

***  
>Like a wraith, Ranger Ellor moved through the woods of Hrijnthir. The resonance of wraithbone within the trees comforted him with echoes of his own thoughts, like a silently attentive audience.<p>

His cameoline cloak slipped comfortably through the many branches and twigs littering the forest floor, never snagging or tearing.

Behind him with two other Rangers, both had served with him for a while now, since their first meeting at the Tartarus campaign, which had been led by Farseer Macha as well. They were of significant discipline, despite their calling as outcasts. There was no room for error now, no room for doubt as they crept through the shadows of the Exodite world.

A sudden movement caught his eye, and he swept his gaze toward the sight. The crunch of breaking twigs was no louder than a whisper, but Eldar ears were much more sensitive to such things than any humans'.

"Halt your progress," Ellor said psychically. With a trained and careful eye, the Eldar Ranger raised his scope, waiting as the electronic sight adjusted itself.

A humanoid figure lay upon the ground. He switched vision mode to heat-tracking, but nothing appeared other than the outline of-

"Straight silver," he heard a voice whisper directly in his right ear in the clumsy human tongue.

The Ranger tried in futility to bring his sword to bear, but it was too little, too late.

A stab, and another, and another, brought the Ranger to his knees. The last thing he saw before he fell into darkness, was the glint of a glistening silver blade, slicked red with his own blood.

"Hundreds of years of practice…" he heard the human whisper mockingly as the vision fled from his eyes. "You'd think that they would have learnt something by now."

***

The last ranger was a skilled close-combat fighter, and had thwarted Maggs' attempt to finish him quickly despite the ambush.

Hissing in her own tongue, the Eldar drew her glittering shortsword, the blade nearly twice as long as the Tanith war-knives they all carried.

The Belladon scout cursed. "That's just not fair…"

With deft movements, he deflected the blows from the shortsword, but the Eldar was simply too fast. The Eldar's blade grazed his shoulder, eliciting a bitten down grunt from the scout.

With an equally fast movement, the Ranger tripped him with a foot sweep, and was about to impale him with her otherworldly blade when Caober buried his straight silver in the Eldar warrior's back.

She fell, gurgling out the last moments of her life.

Panting, Maggs accepted Mkoll's hand and got to his feet. "Gakking Eldar."  
>The scout gave the Ranger's corpse a swift kick.<p>

"Stop messing around," Mkoll chided him quietly. "There might be more patrols headed this way. We need to get to their artillery positions as soon as possible."

"Right, fine," he straightened. The sergeant rarely scolded, and when he did, it was only when he was seriously ticked off. "Lead the way, Sarge."

***

Van Voytz sat within the command sanctum of the Tertius garrison. The area was locked down, with only his retinue of tacticians and the Volpone General, De Leon, present. Gaunt, of course, had went to the front to direct the defence himself.

The casualty reports had begun pouring in. Within ten minutes of the attack, the entire eastern flank had been compromised, thanks to the Eldar application of Distort-Cannon artillery. Gaunt was there, he knew. The vox operator with him had broken contact with base to relay messages to the scout commander, so there was a complete blackout of communication between command and the Colonel-Commissar that worried the Lord General immensely.

It was fortunate that Sergeant Mkoll had been already on station, Van Voytz decided. But what could he do with only two other men backing him up? He feared that all they could do was sit and watch while the rest of the garrison force was slowly massacred by the Eldar onslaught. Very soon, they would break down the door, taking him prisoner like they did to Lugo.

"Sir, armour reports that they're ready for deployment," one of the tacticians raised his voice loud enough to eclipse the quiet chatter filling the command center. "They are await your orders."

"Western emplacement 3-A down, we've lost the heavy weapons team there," another reported grimly. "3-B is getting repeated hits from Eldar Brightlance cannons, they cannot hold out much longer."

"Sir, Colonel-Commissar Gaunt is signalling for reinforcements," one more piped in. "The Volpone 3rd and 4th platoons are at 25% and 40% strength. The Commissar's command platoon is at 50% strength. Colonel Gilbear is injured but still combat-ready."

"Send in _Macharian Hammer_ and _Emperor's Steed_ to support the Eastern wall," Van Voytz pressed his lips firmly together. "Have the rest of them ready for a counter thrust once the Basilisk strike is ready on the agreed coordinates."

"Emplacement 3-B is down, two survivors, their weapons are inoperable."

"Bring them back to the trench line, have them join 2nd platoon," De Leon ordered. "Have Major Arnhelm bring up 5th and 6th platoon to reinforce the Western line."

"Storm guns in trenches, sir?" the tactician replied doubtfully.

"Just do it! Have them use laspistols if they have to," De Leon snapped. "Quickly!"

"Sir, we have sighting! Eldar Fire Prisms, at the Eastern line!"

***

Farseer Macha stood in the middle of a loose circle formed by her Seer Council, their minds focused upon the chaos of the battle. She felt every life-light extinguished, human or Eldar, and heard the dying thoughts of hundreds, rendered into a single coalescent rush of noise.

It had almost been too much for her to bear when she first became Farseer of Biel-Tan, but gradually, she had learnt to focus on the task at hand instead of what each and every one of those voices were saying.

There was no time to dwell on the dead. There never would be. Such was the way of the Eldar.

The attack had already commenced, and so far, the human resistance was beyond belief. Even with the relentless pounding of Eldar artillery, their lines simply refused to break. Even in the tumult of battle, they refused to bow to superior might. True warriors, deserving of a noble end.

In spirit, they reminded her a lot of the Space Marine Captain she had met on Tartarus, Gabriel Angelos. Gabriel of the Hidden Heart, as many Eldar who had survived the Tartarus campaign had called him. Noble, forthright to a fault, stubborn and pigheaded as any human. It was at once irritating and worthy of admiration.

Within the skein of eldritch energy, she found a single life-light burning brighter than the others than surrounded it. A commander of men, as well as a father to many. She touched his mind, tasted of its determination, its purpose. Of a man who walked a road of tribulation, that had come from tribulation and would continue to follow it until the end. This human, this "Gaunt", he was not to be touched. If he ended his life on Hrijnthir, the consequences would be varied and many, and none of them were within her purview.

She sighed, laying a slender hand upon her delicate brow.

"Farseer, are you fatigued?" one of the Seers cocked his head in concern.

"No," she replied. "Our task, it does not strain, merely wearies."

They all knew what she spoke of. Every battle meant lives lost. If even a single soulstone was destroyed…

They all straightened in unison, and reapplied their efforts toward the psychic network extending the range of Macha's sight.

The Fire Prisms were moving forward, the focusing crystals on the Falcon chassis glowing with power. With every blast, she felt the life-lights of the mon-keigh diminish.

"Tell the Exarchs…" she flicked her green eyes over to her majordomo. "They may begin their assault at their discretion."

Suddenly, the thundering roar of human explosives reached her ears, the flash of detonation and the subsequent shockwave knocking her to the ground.

She felt more Eldar lives wink out of existence.

"The Distort-cannon platforms…" her majordomo spoke. "They have been destroyed…"

The sound of steady, ground-shaking _'crumps!'_ told her that the humans had begun their counter battery fire. How had they been able to triangulate the position of her artillery so quickly. It seemed unlikely, given how primitive the humans' technology was. They had no cogitators able to do so with such accuracy, no farsight like that of the Eldar…

_Unless…  
><em>  
>"Saboteurs, Farseer," her majordomo finished her thought for her. "Likely with similar equipment as our Rangers."<p>

"How could that be? The area around the distort-cannons is tightly patrolled!" another Warlock spoke. "We would have known if an interdiction force was moving toward us!"

"It could have been a small force," Macha mused. "Of no more than two or three. Small enough to evade detection."

"It matters not," her majordomo pointed out. "Our attack has already commenced. The loss of our artillery is nothing more than a setback."

"A setback that might cost more Eldar lives," Macha replied quietly.

Her majordomo fell silent.

"Gather the rest of the Rangers who were on patrol," Macha clenched her fists. "Have Daulon supervise them from the sky. Find them and bring them to me."

***

"They've stopped firing those damned cannons of theirs," Major Gol Kolea frowned, listening to the distant hums diminish. "I wonder what's going on with that."

"The Basilisk just began their counter-battery fire," Rawne replied. "It's likely that they managed to tag a few of them."

"Whatever it is, we don't have to worry about them any more," Kolea said. He had lost four men to a D-cannon strike. There weren't even any remains, merely a large gaping hole where the section of trench used to be. "Gakking Eldar with their heretic tech."

The temporary command post in a hardened section of trench between the East and West lines was holding up well. Evidently the Eldar had seen fit not to bomb this place to hell, despite being close to the front lines. It had served as a convenient meeting place for the officers of the Tanith, Volpone and the Fortis Binars during peacetime, but right now, Kolea felt that it was nothing more than a giant target waiting for a cannon strike to blow them all to feth. It was a disgusting hole in the ground anyway, with the table legs sinking into the loose soil in places, and the chairs forever feeling like they were placed in quicksand. Map stands and charts on fibreboard lined the walls, their importance totally gone now that the actual combat had begun.

Shakily, Gaunt walked into the command tent, his officers saluting him in near unison. "Good, you're all here."

"You look like all feth, Bram," Rawne remarked.

"I was with Meryn's platoon when they caught the brunt of it," Gaunt shook his head. "We took twenty-seven cannon strikes. The brunt of the losses were from the Volpone platoons, but still…"

"They stopped the strikes though," Kolea noted. "Arty must have done something right."

"Or Oan might have," Rawne pointed out, referring to the redoubtable Sergeant Mkoll.

"I don't know. I had Anders vox him a few times, but there wasn't any response," Gaunt replied. "Whatever the case is, we're in a better position now. Armour is moving up to engage the Fire Prisms at point blank range."

"It's going to be a slaughter out there," Kolea said solemnly. "Those poor bastards."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 34  
><em><br>The duo left Rivet City and headed in the direction of Megaton once again, their limbs sore from the constant walking. Within two days, more Talon company mercenaries had tried their luck at killing them, a notably difficult task considering the distinct combat prowess displayed by both of them._

_Only one survived the brutal retaliation from the Warlock Veldoran and the Lone Wanderer._

***

Sergeant Gerald Collins, the sole survivor of Hunting Party 7, out of fifteen parties sent out by Talon Company to hunt down Lyra Kendal, limped back to the dilapidated remains of the shopping mall known as Paradise Falls. It was an ironic name for a truly horrific place, where slavery met with decadence and debauchery. At the center of it all, Eulogy Jones, and the man he knew only as Mr. Burke.

Trudging towards the gate of the slaver camp, he gave up and collapsed into the dust, staring dazedly into the sky, which was wreathed in wispy clouds of fine white.

He closed his eyes, thinking back to his encounter with the two monsters Burke had sent him to hunt.

***

It had been seven days since they departed from Talon HQ, seven days without a proper bed to rest in, seven days without a decent meal. Sergeant Gerald Collins sat in the shadow of a large rock, his squad huddled together around a fire for warmth.

"Sergeant, can't we go back for a resupply soon? I'm sick of eating rations," one of his trooper's, a young-ish looking man of 22, asked. He had not bothered remembering his name, must have been John or James or Jones or something.

"Fuck that, don't you remember if we fail our supplies come out of our pay?" Collins snarled.

Chagrined, the trooper fell silent. Truth was, Collins felt the same way. They had been on station for nearly four days, subsisting on hard rations washed down with metallic-tasting water. The men were tired and on edge, their senses dulled by the tedium.

Also, they had heard about the destruction of Hunting Party 12 at the hands of this "Lyra" girl they had been sent to hunt. The only survivor had been found, nearly dead from exposure. He would never walk again, at any rate. The damage to his legs had been aggravated by the days spent without medical attention.

They were tired, hungry and scared, the worst condition in which to undertake a search and destroy mission.

For now, they were safe. The arrangement of rocks around their campsite was a natural deterrent to snipers. Precisely so, considering their target's penchant for sniper rifles.

"Well, I'm bushed," Collins said after a while. "Kieran, take the first watch, settle the rest amongst yourselves."

The dark-skinned corporal nodded, patting his rifle gently and climbing out of their hidey-hole.

As Collins closed his eyes, he heard a faint gurgle and a sudden feeling of warm dampness upon his face. Seconds later, he had the wind knocked out of him by Kieran's falling body.

He opened his eyes, pushing his XO out of the way. "The fuck is going on?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, a blue flash illuminated the camp. A bolt of lightning struck two of his men, exploding them into bloody giblets that showered him with blood, gore, and excrement.

Too horrified to scream, and with the taste of blood in his mouth and the sharp stink of bile and blood in his nostrils, he tried looked down at his XO.

Kieran was dead, his throat slit. His glassy, lifeless eyes stared up at him in mute accusation.

As he looked up from Kieran, he saw a man in ornate robes which seemed to double as battle armour. With a single slash, the man disembowelled the Jones boy, his entrails spilling like refuse upon the dusty, blood streaked ground. The fact that he had only just remembered the boy's name tickled irreverently in his mind, despite the gravity of the situation.

In desperation, Collins raised his weapon to fire, but the feeling of cold metal against his throat stopped him dead.

Suddenly, a combat knife's edge shimmered into existence in front of his eyes. The arm that held it was slender, feminine. "Drop the weapon now."

He did so, sending the rifle clattering to the ground.

The man in robed armour turned to face him, the red slits in his helm glowing in the dim light.

Collins wailed in terror as the man raised his large fluted blade, the tip pointed at his forehead.

"More of these Talon company fools," he pronounced, his voice dripping with scorn. "I tire of dealing with them."

"Who are you people?" he wailed.

"Don't you recognize me?" the owner of the combat knife walked slowly to his front, the blade never wavering for a second. "I'm the person you were sent to kill."

Sharp grey-green eyes stared at him, framed by a mane of dark hair, the faintest of freckles upon her face.

"I also tire of having to introduce ourselves to these fools time and again," the man's voice sounded almost amused. "I would have expected the leader to be more competent than this."

In a normal situation, Collins would have reacted violently. Now, he merely whimpered.

"So… What… shall… we… do…. With… you…" the girl pondered. She looked over at the man. "An example again, Vel?"

"They did not learn from our earlier example," he replied. "I doubt sparing this one will be of any use to us."

"N-no! I'll tell Burke to stop hunting you!" Collins said desperately. "Please, don't kill me!"

"Burke? I thought it was Tenpenny?" she raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"No… Burke's taken over Tenpenny's operation," he replied, trying to buy his life with information. "Since Tenpenny died, he's been trying even harder to get a-hold of both of you."

"Shit," she hissed. "Again? Why?"

"You guys are the only ones who can actively threaten his power. He wants you two dead, and he wants the technology in his suit," Collins gestured toward the man.

"Tell us where he is now," she frowned, pressing the tip of the combat knife against the bare flesh of his throat.

"Are you fucking kidding me? He'll kill me-"

"I'll kill you if you don't tell me. That's simple, isn't it?" she ran the blade over the side of his neck, drawing blood.

He flinched.

"But he'll kill me…" he protested weakly.

The man took a few quick steps toward him, placing a gauntleted hand upon his face. "You will reveal your secrets to me…"

Immediately, he felt his vision swim, a strong tingling engulfing his extremities. "I-I… What are you doing...?"

Memories came unbidden to the surface of his mind, clear as day despite everything.

"Burke…" the man whispered, his gravelly voice echoing within the confines of his mind. "Show him to me…"

"Fuck…" Collins rasped, flecks of spittle upon his lips. "You…"

The man's grip tightened, the pointed metal tips of the gauntlet breaking flesh. "I will rip them from your mind if you resist… and discard your body as a feast for your carrion birds…"

Collins opened his mouth in a soundless scream as the presence within his mind strengthened. It was too strong, too powerful to resist.

"Paradise… Falls…" he intoned, relaxing his grip somewhat. "Quick, Lyra. Give me your mapping device."

The girl held out her Pipboy. He tapped the controls a few times with his free hand before returning his attention to Collins.

"They sent the assassin after us," he whispered again. "That boy... his name… he does not remember… His master… a man… Dark-skinned… His name is… Eulogy… Eulogy Jones… His father…? What manner of human would do such a thing?"

"We've always been a little on the barbaric side," she agreed ruefully. "Anything else?"

"Only that if we choose to visit Paradise Falls, the battle will undoubtedly be difficult," the man let go of Collins' face. "There are many more of his kind there."

Collins slumped to the ground, his breathing laboured and painful.

"Go back to your master," the man addressed him with disdain. "Tell him to stop hunting us if he values his life."

Collins shuddered, curling into a ball, drool snaking down the side of his mouth.

***

Collins opened his eyes again, feeling the echoes of the mental violation that man had visited upon him. Despite everything, he still did not know his name. Was he the alien that he had heard about on the radio? Three Dogg had a reputation for being a Brotherhood sympathizer… but what if he was right?

"Oi, mano, you all right there?" he heard someone call out in a distinctly Latin-American accent. It was undoubtedly one of the slavers manning the gate. "You one of them Talon Company guys, right? Your boss is inside with our boss right now…"

"What's wrong with him, Chavez?" he heard a rougher sounding voice, a lot closer this time.

"I dunno, Jimmy, I ain't no doctor or physical-sician, man," Chavez replied. "Maybe he's hungry or something…"

"Fuck, aren't you a right stupid spic. Let's just get him inside first," the rough-voiced slaver walked over to him. Collins caught a glimpse of his craggy, bearded face before he passed out again.

***

Collins awoke again soon after, his vision blurry and unfocused. Bright light shone into his eyes, eclipsed by a person's head.

"He's awake, Mr. Burke," a female voice issued from the silhouette of the head. He frowned, his eyes tearing from the light. "He'll be all right, he's just a little dehydrated."

"Let me talk to him," the gravelly voice of Burke sent a chill down his spine.

"Sir," he managed force from his parched throat. "It was her…"

"They did this to you?" Burke hissed. "You had four men with you!"

"The one who travels with her…" he croaked. "He does… things... I'm not even sure he's human…"

"What things?" Burke demanded. "The hell are you going on about?"

Collins laughed weakly. "You won't believe me…"

"Just tell me, damnit!" he seized Collins' hair and lifted him up.

"He… he shot a bolt of lightning… I'm not sure how… but it killed two of my men. He killed the last guy with his sword… I swear… I've never seen anyone so goddamned fast…" he coughed a little. "The girl… she had a stealth-boy… she snuck up on Kieran and slit his throat… Woulda done the same to me if she wanted me dead."

"You told them where I was…" Burke's voice was seething barely-controlled anger.

"I didn't… he… ripped it from my mind…" Collins replied.

"That's preposterous!" Burke exclaimed harshly. "You expect me to believe you?"

"I told him that you'd kill me if I told. He made it so that I had no choice," Collins closed his eyes and shuddered. "I tried to resist him, sir… I tried…"

"You're just a fucking weakling!" Burke released him, his head slamming into the metal examination table he lay on. "Don't you realize what you've done?"

"They said… if you valued your life, you'd stop hunting them," Collins saw that Burke's back was turned, but it was obvious he had heard him. "Sir… you gotta understand… they'll kill us all."

"I've paid for your services… I'll spend your lives however I see fit," Burke glared at Collins. "And there is nothing that that upstart girl can say to change my mind."

"I know you're going to kill me, sir," Collins sighed. "But there's one thing that makes me really happy at this point of time."

Burke narrowed his eyes as he reached into his well-tailored suit for his pistol. "And what might that be?"

"That you'll be joining me soon enough, you son of a bitch," Collins summoned what spittle he could and spat at Burke. "I'll see you in hell, sir."

Enraged, Burke drew his pistol and shot the sergeant in the head.

***

"He's dead," Veldoran pronounced as Lyra watched Paradise falls through the scope of her sniper rifle. "The tracer I placed within his mind is no more."

"Well, I can't say that that was unexpected," Lyra replied. "What do we do now?"

"We may attempt to wait for him to leave," Veldoran pointed out. "We still have a few days worth of supplies… However, I do believe your refusal to hide explosives on his person was rather naïve."

"There are too many innocent people inside the compound. Those slaves don't deserve to die, even though the slavers do," Lyra replied.

"In any case, our options are limited. A full frontal assault on the compound would be extremely risky and would likely result in our deaths," Veldoran noted. "A stealth approach would be best if we wish to resolve this quickly and cleanly."

"And those slaves would continue to suffer," Lyra murmured. "I'd like to help them out if I can."

"Again with your schemes of magnanimity," Veldoran sighed. "It is extremely tiresome to be your travelling companion, do you know that?"

"Have you got ANYTHING better to do?" she pointed out exasperatedly. "Look, you Eldar believe that every action has a consequence in the future. Imagine, if you will, we get ourselves into trouble-"  
>"Like we usually do?" Veldoran retorted sarcastically.<p>

"And one of those slaves happens to help us out," Lyra ignored him and continued. "Which he or she wouldn't be able to do if he was still trapped in Paradise Falls."

"But Eldar actually see the future," Veldoran said. "Your action might even cause a negative consequence and you might never even realize it until the thread of fate is completed."

"Look, I believe in Karma. One day, if we keep doing good deeds, it's all gonna come around for us. The world is a dark place, there's no sense in making it darker, right?" she replied. "And besides, can't you look into the future and see where this leads us?"

"It takes a full Seer Council with their minds in concert to break the veil of Time," he shook his head. "One Seer would only be able to glimpse small fragments at different junctures, with use of the rune stones."

"Then cast them now," she insisted. "Anything is better than floundering in the dark."

Veldoran sighed, before reaching into his satchel to withdraw the wraithbone slivers. Empowering them, he saw the rune of Slaanesh glow brightly in the area where location would be depicted. He waved it aside,moving onto the next one.

The rune of action floated to the fore, aligned with the rune of consequence, whereas the rune of inaction was aligned with the rune of destruction.

"That does not aid us…" he whispered to himself.

To take no action was to court destruction. Waiting for him to leave counted as inaction, he realized. They would likely not be able to catch him as he left, especially if he stayed longer than their supplies would last. Leaving Burke to his own devices also counted as inaction, and so… their choice was clear. Either way, they would have to act now to clear Burke from the fold, or face destruction at his hands.

The rune of Humanity glowed brightly with the rune of consequence, but it had no follow up, no good or evil, not even a neutral outcome.

Veldoran gritted his teeth. "Reveal yourself to me!"

With a jolt of power, the wraithbone slivers ceased their orbits and clattered to the ground.

"Inaction… we cannot remain here and do nothing," he announced, retrieving the runes and placing them within his satchel. "Deal with him and free the slaves or leave them to their fate. Either way, we must deal with Burke. We court destruction by doing nothing."

"I still prefer to free the slaves," she replied. "I'll do it alone if I have to."

"You foolish, stubborn girl," Veldoran cursed. "Again you charge headlong into fate as if the Gods themselves had spoken in favour of you. Bear in mind that Ilrissa will not always be able to protect you."

"I know," she closed her eyes. "But in pursuit of my goals, if I were to sacrifice my own humanity…"

"Eldar sacrifice their identities when they become Exarchs to protect the-," Veldoran reminded her, and realized his own circular logic and sighed. "… Very well. I shall treat this as a challenge to hone my skills with. Do what you must."

"Thanks, Vel," she said, before turning back to her observations. "We'll rest till night-time, and come up with a solid plan along the way."

Veldoran was silent. The only other person who had been able to talk him down had been his wife, and often in a way that trapped him in the very same words and thoughts he sought to convince her with.

"Very well," he answered her curtly. "I will apprise you if anything else occurs to me."


	26. Chapter 26

"This is where I'll be leaving you," Draco said, gazing solemnly at the Eldar. "This section of the Webway is distorted, I will lose my form if I enter within."

"And this is where we will find the section of the Webway which will bring us to Veldoran?" he asked, inclining his helmeted head.

Draco nodded, looking down the blue-shaded corridor shaped of eldritch energies. "Yes. Once there, you'll have to find your own way back. I won't be able to help you."

Tarashe stared down the tunnel, feeling a mixture of dread and anticipation. "We've come this far, it makes little sense to abandon our quest here."

At'lia nodded languidly, motioning for her brethren to move forward. Tarashe did so as well, looking back at the path they had travelled, watching it as it seemed to blur and shift and fade.

It was another hour before the tell-tale tingle of a Webway aperture overcame them. With a slight nod, At'lia stepped through the aperture and disappeared, followed closely by her kin and the Eldar of Ulthwe.

The itch of reintegration percolated through his body, and a bright flash of light heralded their arrival into realspace once again. A feeling of emptiness relieved the constant pressure in his mind, but he did not know what it was, merely that the emptiness was a welcome respite.

Bright light issuing from a massive, vaulted metal ceiling nearly overwhelmed his eyes, accustomed to  
>the subdued blue of the Webway. Around him stood organic-looking metal sculptures in the shape of plants, writhing and grasping with their tendrils. Windows adorned the metal-clad hall, through which bright sunlight shone.<p>

The strong tang of oxygen greeted him as he took a deep breath, still half-deaf from the transition. As his vision returned, he witnessed a small, silver-clothed figure take a few steps toward At'lia.

At'lia looked at the tiny figure with undisguised curiosity. It was an odd little thing, with greenish-grey skin and disproportionately large eyes, jet black and glistening like a zircon gem in the light.

The Warlock did not recognize its species, and was thoroughly surprised when it offered a bow of deference to the Harlequin mistress.

At'lia's mask showed the same toothy smile as before. With deft grace, the Harlequin removed the mask, gazing upon the small alien with her own eyes. It was the first time that Tarashe had seen the Harlequin without her mask on. She was undoubtedly beautiful, though somewhat sharp-featured. Her violet eyes sparkled with unconcealed intelligence, and her high cheekbones accentuated the aura of nobility her attire gave her.

"Quirit welcomes you, great and mighty rulers," the tiny figure spoke in perfect, though somewhat dated, Eldar. "How may the Vril serve you this day?"

"The Vril?" Tarashe thought frantically. The name had the ring of familiarity to it, it had been mentioned to him during his time in the crèches of Ulthwe…

The Harlequin narrowed her eyes with pseudo-arrogance. "We require food and lodging. My retinue is tired from their long journey and I do not wish to be kept waiting."

"Are you sure that is wise?" Tarashe whispered to her psychically. "We do not know who or what they are-"

"You do not recognize them?" At'lia shot back, her mental voice amused. "The history of our people is much neglected among our Craftworld kin…"

"I remember the name, but not any other details," Tarashe retorted, frustration evident.

"The Vril were a client race of the Eldar, but were destroyed by the Great Enemy millennia ago," Ronahn piped in, frowning. "They were scientists and craftsmen, granting us gifts of technology and artworks in return for the protection our fleets were able to provide."

"You mentioned that they were destroyed," Tarashe said. "So… does their presence signify that our efforts have finally paid off?"

"It is certainly a possibility," At'lia returned. "But the Webway has never been a precise instrument. We might have been sent back to centuries before Veldoran even arrived, or we might even be too late."

"As you wish, honoured envoy," Their short host had acknowledged At'lia's order and shuffled away, chattering to itself in its tongue. It touched a control on the elegantly crafted door, opening it with a barely audible "shing!".

"Envoy?" Tarashe frowned. "What do they-"

"Naturally, the Eldar Empire would send emissaries to garner tribute or to treat with its lessers," Ronahn interrupted.

"None of this feels right," Tarashe grumbled.

"But I know one thing that does," Ronahn steepled his fingers. "I can no longer feel the touch of Slaanesh within the warp."

Tarashe stared at him for a moment, slowly coming to the realization that the emptiness he had felt before, the lack of pressure on his mental faculties… It was precisely as the ranger had described.

The entire party had gone silent, even the normally talkative Harlequins were quiet, for once. The toothy smiles on their masks faded to white nothingness.

"The silence…" Tarashe murmured, tasting of the Warp with his mind. "I have never known such… serenity."

He closed his eyes, feeling true tranquility for the first time in his life. "Our ancestors… they gave this up in search of endless pleasure…"

"A pity," Ronahn nodded grimly. The ranger had an amazing capability for understatement.

They waited for about ten more minutes, until the creature returned, apologizing profusely in Eldar.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, your Excellencies," Quirit said, his head bowed. "It will not happen again. Forgive us, but your visit came as a surprise, we did not expect you for another thirteen cycles…"

At'lia said nothing, motioning for Quirit to lead the way.

***

As nighttime fell in the Capital Wasteland, Lyra and Veldoran began their rapid move towards the Slaver camp. Cloaked in thought and shadow, the duo slipped past the majority of the slavers' defenses.

They moved closer to the gate, their main obstacle. It was closed and locked, with at least three slavers guarding the entrance. Their features were relaxed, minds clear. It would be difficult to afflict them with mental trickery, Veldoran knew. However, none of them expected an attack. Paradise Falls was undoubted one of the biggest slaver strongholds in the area, and most travelers avoided it like the plague.

"Shoot the ones in the guard towers," the Warlock said psychically, moving unseen even in the well lit area in front of the gate. As he did so, he witnessed them through Lyra's eyes, marking them in a blue aura.

Affixing a silencer to the muzzle of the rifle, she took aim, hands wavering for a second at the immense pressure.

"Calm yourself," Veldoran intoned slowly within her mind. "Breathe evenly, let all thought of failure slip from your mind."

Nodding inwardly, she took the shot, puncturing the braincase of the first slaver. The second shot was perfect as well, embedding itself in the hapless slaver's eye.

The last one was less than spectacular, a gut shot that sent the slaver reeling. However, she followed up with one more shot that ended his gurgling for good.

The slavers at the gate were still blissfully unaware of their comrades' fates, and thus were easy prey for Veldoran. Despite their relatively heavy armour, they were no match for Veldoran's swordsmanship and the keening edge of Arbiter-Of-Death made short work of them.

Their rapidly cooling bodies slumped into the dust, and Lyra ran forward, slinging her rifle once more. Sticking close to the walls, she moved toward the gate, her well-worn boots raising small clouds of dust as she ran.

"I do not sense any additional enemies within the outer area," he whispered, destroying the padlocked gate with a slash of his witchblade. "However, the interior is infested with slavers."

"How many?" she asked.

"Too many to fight," he replied grimly.  
>"Fine, then we won't fight them," she said. "But I think we should try getting the slaves out first."<p>

"If we kill Burke, we will likely not be able to hide our presence any longer, yes," the warlock mused. "Perhaps a distraction of some sort…"

He cast his mental gaze wide, searching for a mind, any mind, that might help them. Finally, his gaze alighted upon the slavers' armourer, who sat within the armoury along the west wall, far from the main slave pens.

***

The slovenly fellow's name was "Pronto". It was a human colloquialism that meant "with all speed".

He felt the shock of mental invasion, tried to fight it and failed. He stood there, vision swimming as corposant flickered around him.

The human fell to his knees, fumbling inside his pocket for the keys to the armoury, where the entire slavers' munition stockpile awaited, behind a sturdy metal door. Veldoran redoubled control of his thrall, feeling the strain of resistance against his mind. He gritted his teeth and steeled his mind, the runes in his satchel trembling with psionic resonance.

Pronto unlocked the door, his hands trembling almost uncontrollably as he fought the presence within his mind to no avail. Inside lay boxes and boxes of munitions, their shiny brass casings glinting in the dim yellow utility light of the armoury. He looked around, his neck and eyes moving of their own accord, albeit jerkily.

There it was, the fuel tanks for the flamers…

He felt his right hand inch toward his sidearm, while he moved slowly, deliberately toward the incendiary ammunition stockpile. A magazine of rare nine-millimetre incendiary rounds sat atop a large box of the same.

He picked it up, feeling the cold metal brush against his hand, and made another attempt to resist.  
>It worked, for a moment. But that unseen force kicked back, sending a jolt of agony through his skull that nearly made him collapse.<p>

"No…" he mouthed, loading the magazine into his pistol and primed it, aiming the business end at the multiple canisters of napalm sitting mere centimetres away from him.

He tried to stop the presence again, and his finger spasmed on the trigger.

***  
>Just as Veldoran relinquished control of his thrall, Lyra heard a deafening series of explosions coming from the slaver compound.<p>

"What the fuck did you just do?" Lyra screamed in outrage. The sound was almost totally drowned out by the roar of the secondary explosions and the screams of shock and pain emanating from the main compound.

Veldoran slumped, bracing himself on one knee and looking up at her. "Your distraction."

"Have you any idea how many slaves you've killed?" she howled. "If I wanted to kill them all I would have rigged the Talon guy with explosives!"

"The explosion… is centered on the west wall," he panted, trying to catch his breath. "The slave pens are on the east wall. They are safe."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, but no words came forth.

"Do you think me an imbecile?" he stood up again, coldly addressing her. "I have kept in mind the objectives you put forth to me."

"Fine," she replied, eyes flashing.

"They will undoubtedly be redirecting to extinguish the blaze, and it will be relatively simple to slip in during the commotion," he made no further issue of their argument, focusing instead on the task at hand. "You might wish to make ready your personal cloaking device. My mental shroud might not be able to shield us both reliably."

She nodded dumbly, retrieving the half-charged stealth-boy from her pack.

Creeping into the compound, she realized that Veldoran had been entirely correct. Every single slaver, and even some of the Talon mercenaries, were now headed toward the armoury. The blaze had spread to the nearby blocks, destroying the ramshackle buildings. Some of the zinc roofing had completely melted, the runnels of liquid metal spilling onto the nearby slavers.

One entire section of roofing collapsed onto some slavers, the liquid zinc cooking them alive as the roofing disintegrated under the heat. Horrific screams issued forth from beneath the wreckage, and the smell of charred flesh filled the air. Some of the other slavers, overwhelmed, ran to a side, retching their guts out.

As the stench wafted over the entire compound, Lyra fought the urge to retch as well, the smell was simply disgusting, mixed in with the scent of unwashed bodies and human effluvia.

They reached the pens quickly, owing to the utter lack of security that the fire had created. Even the jailor had gone, leaving the keys atop a small end-table close to the enclosures. An enterprising slave could have used some sort of implement to grab the keys, but most of them were dazed by the explosion and the screams. As soon as she approached the gate, some of them stood up, looking at her with unconcealed curiosity and hope.

"Hey hey hey, you don't look like a slaver," a young disheveled-looking boy grasped at the wire-mesh fence that separated him from her. "Are you here to free us?"

"Yeah, I am," she grabbed the keys, unlocking the gate. "I'm going to need all of you to cooperate though."

The boy nodded, as well as some of the gathered slaves. Some of them still looked dazed and scared, mumbling nonsense to themselves.

"Some of them are insane," Veldoran mused. "They will not leave willingly. What do we do about them? I can hide them from the slavers for a short time while they run for the exit, but how will you coax them to leave?"

Lyra sighed, motioning for them to come with her. "Ok people, this is my friend Vel, and he's going to make sure the slavers don't see you when you're running for it. All you have to do is not go near any of them and make sure you stick close to one another."

Those capable of nodding nodded. The lone ghoul woman shrugged and smiled, showing rotting stumps of yellowed teeth. Lyra fought the urge to shudder at the sight.

"Come on, in threes, let's go," she instructed.

"But… our collars…" one of them protested weakly. "If we run, they'll set it off…"

"Who has the detonator?" she asked.

"Mr. Eulogy does," one of the children perked up. "He's the boss."

Veldoran nodded, immersing himself in the thoughts of the nearby slavers once again.  
>It was relatively easy to find their leader, nominally the one who was the most enraged and the one barking orders. However, another mind lay close to him… a mind of cold metal and machines and profit…<p>

"Burke. He is with their leader," Veldoran pronounced.

Lyra frowned, her full lips pressed together grimly. "Show me where he is."

Immediately, a flood of images and directions filled her mind. It was much easier for their minds to link together now, considering the slight restructuring of thoughts that Ilrissa's mental presence had caused.

She closed her eyes and formed the image within her mind.

In her mind's eye, she saw the both of them standing to one side of the burning armoury. Naturally, Eulogy Jones was beside himself with rage. The dapper slaver prince was dressed in a reddish-brown suit that was as red as his face right now. Burke, as calm and controlled as ever, looked on dispassionately, his expression only changing to that of disgust when the scent of burning corpses and metal wafted into his general vicinity.

She opened her eyes again, determination burning within her. "Get them out of here, Vel. I'll take them out and join you guys soon enough."

Just as she was about to walk out the door, Veldoran grabbed her arm. "Nothing foolish or overly heroic..."

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "I know what to do."

Ilrissa's soulstone glowed briefly, enough for Veldoran to know that Ilrissa was fully aware of the situation. "Hunt well, then."  
>Nodding, she graced him with a quick smile before she touched a control on the stealth-boy, rendering her invisible.<br>Veldoran witnessed her faint silhouette as the armoury inferno flared in the distance, a shapely female figure with a very large gun on her back. As she walked further and further into the distance, the silhouette dwindled into nothingness.

He turned his attention back to his charges. "Well then, shall we begin our exodus?"

The slaves looked at him, confused by his choice of words.

"It's time to leave," he clarified exasperatedly, before gesturing to the first three closes to the door. "Come on."


	27. Chapter 27

As Paradise burned, Veldoran walked silently behind his charges, his keen eyes flicking back and forth as his mind focused itself on concealing the slaves as they ran toward freedom. The act of concealment was not easy, and required every bit of concentration he could muster.

Little by little they filed out in threes, their backs turned toward what had once been their prison. Finally, Veldoran returned to the cage for what would be the final time before he checked on Lyra. Two humans remained still, an old man comforting an old woman. A cursory glance through their thoughts told him that they were bondmates.

"They told us to stay here," the old woman wailed. "We can't leave…"

"You must leave, human," Veldoran stood at the gate, beckoning toward them with a gauntleted hand. "The slavers will kill you if you remain here."

"Dear, we've gotta go," the old man squeezed her arm gently. "Listen to the nice man. He's come to save us."

"Save… us?" the old woman looked up at Veldoran, her eyes a dull white. Cataracts had obscured her pupils completely. She was undoubtedly blind. The Eldar had medical technology that could have saved her sight, but alas, the closest Eldar world was hundreds of lightyears away. "B-but…"

"Come on, I cannot keep up the illusion forever!" Veldoran hissed. As he did so, a flicker of danger sense crossed his mind. A surge of electricity ran across the wire mesh of the fence, the crackling tendrils arcing across the metal surfaces.

His arm spasmed and he was thrown to a side. Without his arm propping it open, the gate slammed shut, trapping the two elderly slaves within.

Clutching his electrocuted arm, he limped toward the gate, intent on hacking the damn thing open with his witchblade, but it was too late. The two old humans had been leaning on the back fence when the electric surge occurred. He felt their mental sparks wink out of existence, their bodies slumped against the side of the enclosure.

Another flicker of danger sense thrilled down his spine, and he swung his blade around to defend himself. It was another human, a Talon mercenary by the looks of his armour.

He stared at the Eldar Warlock in dull shock, before raising his weapon. It was a little too late, despite Veldoran's clumsy blade swing, owing to his injured arm. The blade destroyed the submachine gun he carried, taking with it a chunk of his hand, including two fingers.

The mercenary screamed, the two stumps on his hand bleeding profusely from the exceedingly clean cut.

The follow up strike ended his screaming, but already, the Warlock could sense the little life-lights turning their attention toward the slave pen.

"Quickly, you fool girl…" he growled, the mental message hurtling toward her.

***

Lyra's finger tightened on the trigger, her mind clear and focused. The bullet exited the barrel, the detritus of the miniature explosion evacuating from the barrel as well, the projectile hurtling toward the slaver prince. It impacted his face, crumpling into his skull with a loud bone-crunch of impact that splattered blood and brain matter all over the adjacent slavers… as well as Burke.

She adjusted her aim, watching Burke swipe at his face and suit with a look of disgust on his cruel face. As she did so, he looked directly into her scope. For a horrible second, their eyes met, and somehow, she knew that he had seen her. The disgust on his face disappeared, replaced by a disdainful sneer.

She fired anyway, and despite her trembling hands, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it would hit.

A bright flash of red blinded her for a moment, and she tumbled off the roof she had picked as her vantage point, falling flat on her back.

A deafening scream issued forth, assaulting her eardrums, and strangely enough, her mind as well. She screamed as well, the pain overwhelming her senses.

Slowly, she felt the pain ebb away, and the cool, calm mental presence that was the Warlock Veldoran shielded her mind from the worst of the mental attack.

She sat up, feeling the bruises on her buttocks and shoulder blades ache tenderly under her fingers. Sparing but a second to touch the stealth boy once again, she slinked away, throwing glances over at where Burke once stood. Nothing remained except for a patch of ground burnt black from extreme heat, smoke still issuing forth from the ground.

"What the fuck was that?" she hissed to herself, knowing that Veldoran would pick up on her thoughts.

"Sorcery," the Warlock replied grimly, his mental voice strained. "The stench of Chaos is thick…"

Looking around, she saw that the majority of the slavers had given up on fighting the fire and were running off in all directions, some headed toward the slave pens to gather what slaves they could and escape. Some were dazed by the burst of tainted psychic energy, and were wandering around insensate. Some stumbled into the flames and were burnt alive, but the stronger minded ones backed away from the spot, refusing to even gaze upon the black spot where Burke had stood mere seconds before.

Oddly enough, the slave pens seemed to be sparking and pulsing with electricity, but at this range, and with the constant flickering of flames from the armoury fire, she could not be certain.

The Warlock was nowhere to be seen. The slavers were bewilderedly patrolling the area, looking for any sign of the slaves. At least one of them had the presence of mind to register Eulogy's death, but Lyra was too quick for him. As she swiped the detonation control from Eulogy's corpse, she sent a point blank shot at the hapless slaver. Her cloak flared for a moment, revealing her presence to the slaver within the last moment of his life.

He slumped, dead before he even hit the ground.

"Where are you?" she thought, looking around frantically.

A sudden burst of raw emotion filled her as Ilrissa's soulstone burnt bright upon her chest.

"We must leave, and quickly," the banshee Exarch's voice was clear within her mind. "Veldoran can take care of himself. "

As she sprinted for the exit, she heard the distinct bleeping of the stealth-boy. It was rapidly running out of power, and for every few steps she took, the stealth field shimmered, revealing her position.

Some of the slavers took notice of this, raising their weapons to take potshots at her. A few bullets zipped past, impacting the ground and raising little clouds of dust. One grazed her shoulder, but the reinforced leather deflected the worst of the impact. Another struck her arm, drawing blood. The pain was minimal, as was the impact on her escape.

As she crossed the gate, she removed a grenade with her free hand, the other one still clutching the sniper rifle. Removing the pin with her teeth, she dropped the grenade, leaving it at the mouth of the gate.

Sprinting away, she leapt behind a large outcropping of rock, readying another grenade.

The slavers reached the gate just as the grenade exploded, the ball bearings within the grenade riddling their bodies with miniscule holes. She primed the next grenade, noting with interest that she had run out of frags. The plasma grenade she held glowed briefly as she hit the arm button, and a small digital dial on the side blinked 0:05 for a moment, then began counting down.

There were still slavers running toward the gate, and the second blast took them all by surprise. Hot green plasma, superheated by the grenade's detonation mechanism, flew in all directions, setting clothing alight and melting through the thick steel of the gate. Some of the slavers simply disintegrated, their bodies rendered into glowing green goo, while some of the other less fortunate ones clutched arms destroyed by the deadly substance.

The ground was ablaze with burning plasma, blocking the entrance to Paradise Falls.

***

Veldoran crept along the side of the exit to the wasteland, cursing as he saw the slavers crowding around the entrance. He cursed again when he saw the green flames at the entrance, blocking his path to freedom.

The Talon mercs were mostly spent, and the sudden disappearance of their boss had not done wonders for their morale. The remaining sergeant seemed determined to rally them, but the situation was grim enough without the old bastard shouting at them.

He sighed. The walls were too steep to scale, and the flames made it impossible for him to leave without being noticed. He could not conceal himself and protect himself from the flames at the same time. It would come down to a fight, no matter what stratagem he pursued.

He walked into the middle of the slaver group nonchalantly, watching as they brought buckets of water forward to extinguish the flames and renew their pursuit. They were all tired and weak, their minds were battered and weary from the task and the sudden burst of mental energy. Burke was nowhere to be found. Judging from the timing of the burst of energy and Lyra's shot, there was little doubt that Burke had been the source.

He could no longer sense Burke's presence, but the lingering taint of warp power infested the place. Whoever he was, Burke had obviously been a practitioner of the dark arts, skilled enough to conceal his latent talent.

At least, he reflected, their objectives had been met. These slavers were poorly equipped, and had little training. The Talon mercenaries were a spent force. If he was to escape, he had to do it now, while they were at their weakest.

With a mental gesture, he dispelled the aura of invisibility and focused his mind on an aura of protection. As he did so, the gems upon his armour glowed, and a crackling aura of psyker energy enveloped him. Subtle warmth spread throughout his body as Arbiter-Of-Death tasted the resonance of the life-sparks around him, the empathic weapon amplifying his disgust and battle-lust ten-fold.

The slavers were dumbfounded at the imposing figure of the Warlock appearing amongst them, some fumbled for their weapons, while the others merely stared.

He swept the glimmering blade in an arc, infusing it with psychic energy. Arbiter-Of-Death sang in his hands, hungering for... and tasting, the blood of Veldoran's foes as it slipped quickly in and out of their bodies.

A veritable maelstrom of telekinetic force sent the slavers flying, the dust beneath their feet forming a floating tsunami of particulate matter that heralded the force's approach; some crashed into the gate while others were swept into the plasma fire, bodies already charring in the heat. The less fortunate ones arced into the air, crashing into sharp bits of metal, impaling themselves neatly upon the tips. Those would take a while to die, Veldoran reflected with dispassion.

Another burst of Chaos energy manifested near him. A daemon... he could feel its hate and its power.

He turned to face it, watching the space shimmer and bleed with chaotic purpose. It was vaguely humanoid, its face ever-changing, its form difficult to pin down. A daemon of Tzeentch. The taste of Burke's mind was fresh upon its scent. Likely, the "Burke" that had been known to him and Lyra had been a well-concealed daemonhost. For now, it revealed itself in what was its true form, the time for deception having long past. What he could see were sharp fingernails, akin to talons, protruding from the vague region of its hands.

"Eldar..." it spoke slowly, deliberately. A vague feeling of amusement filled him, a projection of the daemon's mental state. "Such a magnificent accident you are... Displaced in both time and space... Would you not like to know what the Dark Powers have planned for you?"

Though intrigued, Veldoran concentrated his hate for the great Enemy and washed all doubt from his mind. Tzeentchian daemons were known for their trickery and use of guile in battle, and this one had just proven itself to be another of the same sort.

Within the skein of the warp, his mind met the daemon's, two razor-sharp swords meeting in the ether between dimensions. In reality, they stood apart, bodies poised in postures of battle, though neither of them made any moves.

Veldoran's waystones glowed a deep scarlet, getting hotter and brighter with every passing second. His runes had issued forth from his satchel of their own accord, all of them taking up orbits around his head and torso. All over his body, corposant rippled and crackled, arcing over runes and other miscellaneous gems. Arbiter-Of-Death pulsed and thrummed, its psychic resonance echoing a warsong of Khaine.

The daemon kept its distance, as the power radiating from the Warlock was almost too much to bear. The aura's sheer purity and power was burning away at the daemon's presence, much like a flame burned away shadow.

"Your companion... she awaits outside of this place," it spoke slowly, deliberately. "She has the Gift... a fitting tribute to the Dark Gods, don't you think so?"

Veldoran struck again, within his mind. The daemon recoiled mentally as well as physically, its limbs trembling at the pressure.

It let loose a blast of energy at him, which he redirected with a flick of his witchblade. It tried again, with little effect.

"Begone, daemon," the Warlock growled. "You are no match for me."

"As you wish," it said, voice still rich with amusement.

It disappeared, polluting the skein no more, probably teleporting away to safety.

The Warlock moved to sheathe his blade, thinking better of it at the very last moment just before the daemon rematerialized behind him.

He whirled around as the daemon raised its talons to strike, bringing the witchblade swiftly to deflect the blow.

The daemon's strength was fearful, but Arbiter-Of-Death, forged by the greatest of Ulthwe's swordsmiths, sliced off its talons promptly, infused with its master's hate and disgust.

The daemon reeled, stunned, an inarticulate roar issuing from its throat, warp energy dribbling from its wound.

Veldoran saw his chance and struck again with his mind, overpowering the daemon's presence within the skein and banishing it from reality.

"I will not cease to plague you, or that foolish girl you have allied yourself with!" it screeched as it hurtled back into the depths of the Warp.

"Then be assured, I will be waiting," he whispered back, but the daemon was already gone.

***

Lyra stood outside Paradise Falls, huddled alongside the slaves near the entrance. Most of them had picked up some of the weapons scavenged from the three dead slavers, while the rest merely hid in the shadows, thinking it better to be able to slip away at a moment's notice.

"What the fuck's taking him so long?" she fretted. Her latent abilities told her that Veldoran had been drawing on a lot of power, far longer than any particular moment she had seen.

It worried her that she had heard nothing from him, not a single mental message. She regretted the grenade, but she had assumed he had left with the slaves already.

She resumed aiming at the gate, but the flames were obscuring everything with their greenish flickering.

For a moment, a silhouette appeared within the flames. It disappeared, then grew clearer and clearer as the figure walked through the flames toward her.

The Warlock strode through the fire, armour shimmering with energy. He was untouched, his robes not even singed from the immense heat.

She lowered her rifle and ran toward the Warlock, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Burke..." he whispered. "He... was not human, or at least he is no longer."

"What?" she frowned. "Another alien?"

"A daemonhost," he pronounced. "A servant of the Ruinous Powers. I cast it back into the Warp. It is a practice of the forces of Chaos to use living hosts for daemons not capable of manifesting themselves in reality."

It was difficult for her to grasp, he reflected as he looked into her mind briefly.

"Our presence here... it has not gone unnoticed," he explained. "And the longer I remain here, the more I draw upon my powers, the more visible we will be to them."

"We?" Lyra narrowed her eyes.

"You have the Gift," Veldoran replied. "Any untrained psyker is at risk of being detected and possessed."

"But... I haven't been able to do much with it other than to sense you," she raised an eyebrow.

"As I have said, you are untrained. You have not realized your full potential, from what I know of human psykers," he explained. "In any case, you will not be safe until I am able to return to my people."

"Well, we've been in danger from the very beginning," she dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. "What's a little more danger to keep us on our toes?"

"You are not listening!" Veldoran grabbed hold of that hand. "With the Ruinous Powers watching our every move, rest assured that they will use every opportunity to negate us as a threat. If we fall at any point of time, it is likely that our very souls will be lost. Do you understand that?"

Lyra fell silent, unwilling to continue.

"Come, we will discuss this later," he gestured for the slaves to follow them.

"We're missing Mr. And Mrs. Lindon," one of the slaves, a little boy, piped up.

Veldoran looked at the boy, his mask impassive. "They... were unwilling to leave."

"And you didn't make them leave?" he protested.

"I tried," he replied, before Lyra pulled him away.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The road back to Megaton was a long and hard one. Often, the large group of slaves attracted unwanted attention from unscrupulous traders and some raiders. Thanks to Lyra's sharp eye and Veldoran's senses, they avoided the worst of the Wasteland. The creatures that they ran into – mole rats and such, were an oddly convenient food source, considering the fact that the duo had not brought along enough foodstuffs for the entire group. The logistics of feeding their small army, Lyra had quipped, eliciting a wry eyebrow-raise from the Warlock.

The children were remarkably well-behaved, helping to serve the adults when food was delivered. Most of the Vault children Lyra knew were self-centered and pampered little brats. The only thing that kept her from going down that path was her father's constant attention to her behaviour, as well as her religious upbringing. Amata herself found it an oddity that a man of science like James Kendal doubled as the Vault's unofficial pastor, with many residents coming to him for advice – something which the Overseer found somewhat disturbing.

When questioned about their behaviour, the children merely shrugged.

"In Little Lamplight, the mayor taught us that the group comes first. We all have to do our part. You grownups do the tough stuff so we'll do the rest," one of the children, a little girl by the name of Sylvie, spoke to Lyra during communal dinnertime.

One night, when she was settling down to bed, one of the children appeared next to her bedroll, her emerald eyes glinting in the dim light of the fire they had started. She had short, severely-cut black hair with blunt bangs.

"Hey there," Lyra smiled, patting the little girl's head gently. "You're Sarah, right?"

"Sabba," she replied, sounding somewhat annoyed. "I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" Lyra sat atop her bedroll, moving aside to allow the little girl some space to sit down as well.

"Is it true that monsters are after you and your friend?" Sabba asked. "I heard Mr. Vel say that you two were in a lot of danger…"

Lyra frowned. "You shouldn't go around eavesdropping like that. It's not polite."

"I wasn't dropping no eaves, Ma'am," she replied cutely. "But… is it true?"

"I suppose so," Lyra shrugged. "You shouldn't worry about me and Vel, though. We're used to this kind of stuff."

"I think it's different, this time," Sabba said, placing her small hand on Lyra's shoulder. "You should be more careful next time."

"Sure," Lyra nodded, somewhat perplexed by Sabba's sudden seriousness.

"Well, I thought you might find this useful," Sabba overturned her little backpack and dropped the contents onto Lyra's bedroll.

It was a sub-machinegun. The precisely-machined metal gleamed with gun oil, its flawless surface untouched by the elements.

Lyra picked it up and turned it around in her hands. "Where'd you get this?"

"My father gave it to me," Sabba replied. "He carved my name into the stock."

True enough, the name "Sabbatine" was etched into the metal stock in a flowing script, as well as an exquisitely machined symbol – a skull with a cross below it, similar to the Greek symbol for the female gender. The skull was left the native black of the gun-metal, while the circle surrounding the skull as well as the cross was a deep scarlet. On both sides of the barrel-casing were a pair of stylized double-headed eagles, gilded gold, and the eagle's eyes seemed to blink in the flickering light.

"It's beautiful," Lyra smiled. "But I can't take it. It's a family heirloom, I'm sure your father would prefer if you kept it."

"No, he told me to give it to you," Sabba murmured. "He said that Chaos would be hunting you, and that he would protect you any way he could. Use it with his blessing and mine."

"How the hell-" Lyra looked up from the weapon. Sabba had disappeared, as if she had never been there at all.

Placing the submachine gun in her backpack, she set off to where the bulk of the children slept.

She swept her gaze over the lot, all of them staring questioningly at her.

"Something wrong, Ma'am?" one of the boys asked.

"Where's Sabba?" Lyra frowned. "I was talking to her a moment ago before she disappeared."

"Sabba?" he frowned, before gesturing to a little girl who sat across from him. "You mean Sarah?"

The little blonde girl looked up at her quizzically.

"No…" Lyra shook her head. "Never mind."

Going back to her bedroll, she reached into her pack and withdrew the submachine gun again, examining it once more.

In small, barely noticeable script, just below the double-headed eagle on the left side of the gun, was a short sentence.

"May you be the light of humanity in a sea of unrelenting darkness."

***

They reached Megaton in the late morning, just before the group ran out of non-irradiated water. The children were already beginning to suffer from dehydration, and Veldoran ended up carrying little Sarah while the rest of them trudged wearily on.

Simms was less-than happy to see the duo return with more mouths to feed, but it was impossible to conceive of any other plan, considering that Megaton was the biggest town for miles around.

The former slaves thanked their saviours profusely. Most were too poor to offer them anything but their thanks, but one elderly man offered the only thing he had on him besides his clothes – a small locket containing a picture of him and his wife, taken when he still lived in a Vault.

Lyra pressed the locket into his hand and smiled. "There's no need for that."

The Warlock watched her quietly, seeing her hold back tears as she spoke to each and every one of them. The red soulstone she wore glowed dimly, and Veldoran sensed a strong undercurrent of emotion in the skein that stemmed not only from Lyra's latent abilities, but also from Ilrissa's spirit, contained within the gemstone.

They stopped by the clinic to get more stimpaks - three quarters of their stock had been depleted on the way back from Paradise falls.

"It was a brave thing you did," Church said as he walked in between the beds, checking on some of the newest citizens of Megaton. "If I wasn't such an ornery old bastard, I might even call you a hero."

"I'm not a hero," she replied demurely. "Veldoran did most of the heavy lifting."

"It was your idea, your vision, and your will that made it happen," the Warlock pointed out. "I was your blade, an extension of your will and intent. The Eldar have a saying – 'Halanth lyrannir selan'. It means-"

"To thyself, be true," Lyra finished for him. She coloured slightly. "Sorry."

"He's right," Church added. "Don't sell yourself short. It's good work that you're doing. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

Lyra smiled tiredly. "Well, thanks for the stimpaks. I think I'm gonna go lie down now. Afternoon nap."

Church nodded in reply, turning back to his patients. "I need you to stop scratching at the bandage…"

***

Sandoval awoke again, eyes adjusting to the brightness.

"What's going on?" he gurgled, his voice reedy and weak from thirst.

Pain seared across his left arm as he moved, and he looked down at it.

The flesh was peeled back, revealing metallic grafts that seemed to whirr and pulse in time with his heartbeat.

"The fuck are you doing to me?" he screamed. "Sick bastards!"

"Cybernetic augmentation is one of the technologies the Enclave is working on," said a male voice. It was one of the scientists, Nyquist, if he remembered correctly. "We were using Crucinedrine to see if you could withstand the constant pain of utilising the implants. So far… you've proven yourself most resilient to the effects."

He recoiled as the sound of drills and actuators grew louder and louder to his ears.

"Put him under, Dr Dahlren," Nyquist said.

"Of course," he heard Sara's voice drawl almost disinterestedly.

"You bitch!" Sandoval roared as she inserted a heavy-gauge needle into his arm. The pain was astounding, especially with the application of Crucinedrine.

His vision blurred as the sedative took effect, and darkness crept in at the edges. He fought to stay awake, but the drug was too strong.

"I'll see you in hell, Nyquist," he grimaced.

"After you, Mr Sandoval," Nyquist replied mock-politely.

"Your turn, Dr Larraman," Sara gestured toward one of her fellow scientists. He stepped forward silently, fiddling with the scalpel as he lowered it toward's Sandoval's unmodified right arm, the sharp edge biting into his flesh and drawing blood.

Larraman removed Sandoval's arm from the elbow onwards, attaching small electrodes directly into the bloody flesh – conductors for the new cybernetic arm they were attaching. The clean cuts would heal rapidly with the proper application of medication and stimulus, melding the hypoallergenic electrodes into the flesh. The ends were melded carefully into the carefully separated nerves, looking like bits of shrapnel around a bloody wound.

Dispassionately, Sara Dahlren looked on, placing yet another catheter into his left arm and watching the blood flow from the pack into his flesh. She allowed herself a moment of indulgence, her touch lingering for a moment upon the exquisitely bunched muscles.

"Delicious," she thought with a smile, hidden behind the reflective golden mask of her suit.

It seemed such a waste to despoil such an exquisite body such as Roger Sandoval's, but she knew that it was not her decision to make. Anything she said or did was under the closest scrutiny, and even a minor screw-up would be detrimental to her career within the Enclave, likely ending in incarceration or death.

"Dr Dahlren," Nyquist's terse voice jolted her out of her reverie. "10 ccs of Thyroprometazine."

She nodded, turning toward the small metal cupboard next to the operating table. The cupboard was sterilized and climate controlled, the drawer hissing quietly as it opened. Retrieving a small jar of Thyroprometazine and a syringe from the drawer, she pierced the rubber cap of the jar with the slender hypodermic needle, extracting the required amount from it and tapping out the bubbles carefully. Picking up his left hand, she injected it into his wrist with practiced swiftness. She felt his finger muscles tense for a moment as she did so.

A twinge of desire crossed her mind as she held his coarse-skinned hands. She had once released his wrist restraints during their nightly dalliances, and the feeling of his hands upon her waist and hips was truly an experience to remember.

She shivered imperceptibly at the memory. Likely, her unlikely paramour would be in no mood for it the next time he woke up. Again, the flitting tactile memory of rough skin against smooth bare flesh-

"His blood pressure is going down again," Larraman grumbled. "The Thyroprometazine needs to kick in soon."

David Larraman, the Enclave's foremost authority on bio-engineering, was an impossible-to-replace resource. The life of seclusion he led as a result of Enclave security procedures gave his skin an unhealthy pallor. The beginnings of wrinkles were masked by the paleness, making him look somewhat younger that he actually was.

"Don't worry about it, Doctor," Sara replied coolly. "Sandoval has a solid constitution."

"He is the best specimen that we've found in two years," Larraman shot back. "Forgive me if I don't want to waste this opportunity."

Larraman was correct, of course. The last specimen that they had used was a Raider from Evergreen Mills, captured during an attempt to steal supplies from an Enclave outpost. He expired during the initial stages of priming with Crucinedrine, unable to withstand the immense pain from his purposefully-inflicted wounds.

"Well, if my work here is complete, I will be returning to my own project," Nyquist drawled, moving over to the airlock adjoining the operating theatre. "I've been most eager to start with the new specimen our collection team brought in."

"Of course, Richard," Larraman replied, not looking up from his work.

There was a moment of awkward silence as Larraman continued the surgical procedure. It was, oddly enough, Larraman who broke the silence.

"Are you enjoying your time here?" he asked. "I was given to understand Raven Rock can be awfully dull."

"As well as can be expected, Doctor," Sara replied stiffly. "I was not assigned here to have fun."

"Come now, we are colleagues," the elder scientist chided her gently. "Call me David."

She paused for a moment before she spoke again.

"It's difficult," she said, finally.

"Working in Raven Rock or calling me by my first name?" he joked.

"Both," she chuckled as she replied. "I mean, the soldiers I talk to don't share my interests. The other scientists are simply too dry for my taste."

"All very legitimate concerns," he stood up, placing the bloodied scalpel in a disinfectant bath. "My wife thought like you went I first met her. I used to work at the genetics lab in Norfolk. Back then, the bases were even smaller and less well-appointed as this one."

"How is she?" she asked politely.

"Oh, she lives at the Crick facility in the West," Larraman replied. "Works as a project advisor. Our two children keep her busy most of the time. I think of them every day."

"I see," she tried to keep her voice interested. She respected Larraman's scientific prowess, but talk about family really turned her off.

"Thankfully, I am happy either way," he continued. "I cannot stand it when family keeps me from my work and vice versa. Balance in everything."

He removed the golden mask from his suit, revealing his grinning face behind the airtight visor. His salt and pepper hair and beard were tousled and messy.

"Don't spend your youth on work," he placed a hand on her shoulder. "We all live for ourselves. The so-called greater purpose should always be secondary to your own happiness."

She removed her visor as well.

"Easy for you to say," she retorted lightly.

He shrugged, before looking over his handiwork wistfully. "A pity. He would have served the Enclave well if he had joined the corps. A strong, powerful specimen of a man. A leader. Imagine the good he could have done."

She shrugged. "We all serve in our own way, just like how Roger will, now."

The use of his first name was dangerous, she realized as soon as the words left her mouth.

Thankfully, Larraman did not react to her sudden informality.

"Yes, I suppose he will," Larraman nodded. "Pass me the cauterizer, please."

***

Simco drifted in and out of consciousness. It was a dark, cold place where he felt cold metal enclosing him at all times. The cold was almost unbearable, but it numbed the pain he felt in his gut.

A surge of adrenaline went through his body as he remembered the wound.

That bitch had stabbed him in the gut.

He struggled, but it was impossible to move anything except his eyes, which were useless at present.

Cold metal, everywhere. Surrounding him in a cocoon of impenetrable darkness-

He started to retch, and the taste of bile in his mouth was clear as day.

The hissing of servos and the rush of compressed air against his face stopped his panic retch for a moment, which returned full force when bright light shone into his eyes, blinding him momentarily while they adjusted.

He screamed, a raw, painful animal howl that reverberated within the confines of the room he could barely make out. A string of blistering expletives followed that scream, and he screamed until he ran out of breath, the sound of his heaving dominating his senses.

"Disgusting," he heard a tinny male voice towards his right. He could not tilt his head or move his eyes enough to look in that direction.

"Fuck you!" he rasped impotently, breathing heavily and nostrils flaring. Muscle and sinew stood out clearly on his face and neck, tensing every so often as he struggled vainly against his restraints.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the room was as sterile white as the light, except for a mirror in front of his claustrophobic prison.

From the mirror, he saw the gleaming steel coffin that was his prison, his bare shoulders and his terrified visage emerging from the top.

"Release him, please," the voice said.

With the whine of electrical motors, the coffin opened. The rush of cool air against his body told him that he was completely naked. It felt disconcerting and somewhat arousing all at the same time, a fact which manifested itself quite clearly in his rapidly growing tumescence. His liking for bondage was also reinforcing the fact as well.

His wound, while severe, had been clearly tended to. The slight ache told him that it had not fully healed, and the livid scar as well as the suturing showed the extent of the damage that had been done by the girl's machete.

His eyes were fixed upon his crotch, but try as he might, he could not shake off the feeling of arousal.

The door hissed open and admitted a single, white suited person, identity concealed by a golden visor.

Red with humiliation, he averted his gaze from the visor.

"My new specimen," the white suited person spoke musingly. "You're excited by your predicament… how novel."

Simco said nothing.

"Do you have nothing to say to me? No pleas or vulgarities to offer?" he asked.

The white-suited man lifted Simco's chin gently, but Simco shook his hand away.

"Such spirit," he commented wryly. "Good… good."

The white suited man left, the door hissing shut quietly again, leaving Simco to his thoughts.

Suddenly, his restraints slid away, releasing him. He sprang forward toward the door and unleashed a torrent of bare-fisted blows against it.

He struck it again and again until his fists bled all over its smooth and previously stainless white metal surface.

***

"A fine specimen you captured, Captain Rowell," Richard Nyquist turned toward the armoured Enclave captain who stood next to him. "A veritable animal."

"Yeah, he was still alive in spite of the wound that was inflicted upon him," the captain replied. Silas Rowell was a man of excellent skill and leadership qualities, and it showed in his professional demeanour and confident poise. His blonde hair and blue eyes bespoke a perfection that Nyquist at once admired and envied. "A true fighter."

They watched impassively as Simco flung himself at the one-way glass, shaking it ever so slightly. There was no way he would ever break it – it was reinforced to contain the worst of specimens, super mutants in particular.

Again and again he threw himself at the mirror, blood appearing upon his lean, muscled torso as he did so. An inarticulate scream issued from his mouth, but it was rendered down to nothing by the sound dampeners inherent in the room's construction.

Finally, in defiance, the young feral human grabbed his genitalia and began to gratify himself. Rowell averted his eyes in distaste, but Nyquist looked on in scientific fascination.

"What a delightfully perverse creature," he drawled.

He was finished blessedly quickly, and he left a long dribble of his fluids upon the mirror and upon his abdomen. He smeared the whitish liquid haphazardly on the one-way glass as well as himself, before sitting quietly in the corner, still fondling himself absently.

"Almost as if he's marking his territory, eh Rowell?" Nyquist observed.

"Yes," Rowell agreed, disgust playing over his aquiline features.

"He will be perfect as the prototype for our Eversor project…"


End file.
